As a Nazgûl
by Iamwhononofyouare
Summary: It wasn't strange, I suppose, to be hit by a truck and sent to another world. Only, it's strange that I'm a half-dead freak masquerading as a Dark General. SI.
1. Prologue

Summary: It wasn't strange, I suppose, to be hit by a truck and sent to another world. Only, it's strange that this one seems oddly familiar, though my memories are ever fading. As a Nazgul. SI.

Authors note: So I've been tossing this idea around in my head for some time, but never got quite to it. I kinda wanted to do As an Orc/Uruk, but that'd probably end up beyond the scope of this site's ratings. Thus, Nazgul.

 **Prologue:**

My life was fairly simple, in my own esteemed opinion, go to college, take the tests, write the papers. I'd judged my chance to die, outside of suicide, was roughly one in a million, per day, at my current rate. I diligently looked both sides at every crossing, which I only encountered ten times a week, and ate healthy foods, like mashed potatoes and pizza. Exemplary, if I do say so myself.

So, I'll say that it did come as a surprise to me when a truck came barreling down, and, quite embarrassingly, I froze.

But, let's rewind a little.

It was a nice calm noontime, late in the season and with a smattering of clouds livening up the sky. Exiting my car adroitly, I hastily grabbed my lunchpack and heaved my backpack, laden with coursework, out of it's position on the floor of the backseat.

Closing both car doors with a satisfactory thud, I made my way into the street. My lunchpack tilted as I minded my heavier backpack, held in my hand, and I stopped abruptly to right it before culinary disaster could ensue. In retrospect, stopping in the middle of the street was a bad decision, my final one. In life, at least.

And, while I can assure the reader that my decision making hadn't come to a close, my life had. Not reborn as flesh was I, not given a soul. But immortalized as a dark wraith, trapped between death and life, and unable to truly connect with either world. So it is with total confidence that I assert that my lifetime of decisions was over, ended with the cherry on top called carelessness, and my the means of the laws of physics. How I hated the conservation of momentum as my body was pulverized.

But, enough of that.

XXXX

Slowly I woke, my vision feeling awfully motion-blurred. I should probably take it easy. If I survived that bus, I was most likely in bad shape. Strangely, though, I felt no hurt.

The pain relievers sure are impressive these days, let's hope I don't get addicted.

My surroundings, as I looked around slowly, my vision still painfully jarring in quality, seemed entirely unlike a hospital. No, rather, isn't this the morgue?!

Panicked, I confirmed that on five sides I was contained within a coffin, or at least a very nice box, while a nice arched ceiling ruled the other dimension.

Was it one of those situations where the regenerating protagonist had been deemed dead and sent to the morgue, only to wake up?

It seemed the likeliest for now. So, let's assume I'm officially dead. Ok. No problem. Good-bye mom, sayonara, sis. Cool. Just what I've been waiting for. What could be better than to be declared legally dead? Nope. I've got nothing. I guess it really is the best thing _ever._

Still, if the government finds out I'm a revival man, they could seriously lock me up and kill me over and over to confirm it while trying to take my seed to see if my kids would be the same way while trying to clone me so they could take those clones to be elite assassins while killing my entire family to find out if they're the same so that they could make even more money so…

Ok. Don't get caught. Good. I'm calm, I'm definitively, defiantly, definitely, absolutely, aggressively calm.

Let the hate flow through you and make you stronger…

Thanks, Sidious, I hate this situation. So, time to power up.

I flung my hand out, but, as expected, nothing happened. Worthless revival power, what good are you? Killing myself again wouldn't even work because I couldn't mimic the injuries perfectly.

Besides, who'd want to wake up in a lidded, _buried_ , coffin? I'd heard stories about how much that sucked, true stories. Thanks, TV.

Time to get out of here for good, become a super-secret assassin that everybody thinks is already dead or something, just gotta go.

I glanced to my hand, still thrust out from earlier. Strange that my muscles weren't tired.

I frowned, stranger still that it looked nothing like my hand at all.

Or, for that matter, like anybody's hand. It was extremely pale, and seemed to oscillate, though that could be my eyes playing tricks. The fingers were long and unreasonably thin, as if I'd wasted away and every last scrap of flesh had been converted to energy.

Or whoever this was supposed to be. My hands looked nothing like this.

Whatever, confirming my vision can wait, for now, let's leave.

Heaving myself out of the coffin with surprising ease, I made my way out of the room cautiously.

X-X-X-X-X

 **Authors note: So, here's the admittedly short prologue, let me know your thoughts. Feel free to correct grammar and spelling in your reviews, but don't make that their sole purpose.**

 **Anyway, this idea has been floating around in my head for a while, but I've never really gotten around to it till now. The time-frame will be revealed shortly.**


	2. Of Dark Lords and Darker Servants

**Ah, right, I knew something was missing last time… I do not own Lord of the Rings or its characters. This work is meant only as a tribute to J. R. R. Tolkien's genius. Or something like that.**

 **(no, we're not missing a chapter, the last installment counts as ch 1, because ff .net)**

 **Chapter II, Of Dark Lords and Darker Servants,**

X-X-X-X-X

The rest of this building, whatever it was, seemed no different from 'my' room. The same dingy stone, looking ill-kept and frightfully old, the same old arches and uncanny lack of mortar.

Like the Incas. Quite like them. Fitted nicely and lasting for centuries.

But, I wasn't in South America, was I? It didn't seem likely.

Eventually the floor in front of me was interrupted not by a wall, but by a railing, the floor falling away beyond what my eye could see. The ceiling, however, continued as usual for at least as far as I could see.

The sound of voices, from below, distant, (how far did that drop go?), interrupted me.

Whoever was speaking sounded male, though beyond that I could not tell. Cautiously I approached the edge of the floor, concealing my hollowed frame behind the railing and looking down at the figures below.

"Yes, my lord, we'll make sure no one escapes these 'alls," And didn't that sound encouraging, "Or even approaches 'em in the 'irst place."

The speaker was clearly as much or more a mockery of humanity than I was, his face deformed and his head lacking all but a few strands of hair. Missing teeth, grime, and scars all over added to his menacing appearance.

The one spoken to wore a dark cloak, and I only saw his back, but with him, I assumed the gender, I felt a kindred spirit.

...Or something like that. He seemed much more trustworthy.

The foul creature departed, and his retreating gait struck me oddly. A singular word identifying him rose forth in my mind: _Orc._

But not all orks looked like that, I knew. In some fantasy novels they were pig-like, or green, or both. And often larger than a man.

From here, though, the hooded figure seemed much taller, so I assumed the ork was of the shorter variety.

This was, undoubtedly, a _Lord of the Rings_ orc. Unless my eyes deceived me.

Assuming they hadn't, that meant I was either watching some sort of make-up festival, or some creepy mad scientist had either bred or turned humans into that thing.

Freakin' freaky. Was that why my body was out of order and my eyesight was as motion-blurred as a really overdone video game?

"Status."

As expected, it wasn't that kind of cheesy development where I could just pull up a status screen and learn everything about myself. That would have been convenient.

Race: Frankenstein

Ability: None.

Titles: The Man Who Died to Right His Lunchpack.

Abnormal States: Recently Frankensteined.

Yup. That about sums it up, I think.

Movement caught my eye as the hooded figure suddenly turned towards me, his piercing gaze at once horrifying and… natural. With his fingers, not dissimilar to mine, he motioned for me come down.

That face though. How could I obey such an ugly thing? But how could I not?

Was it not natural? He'd said to go down. Why was I hesitating?

Silly.

How unlike me.

Before I was even aware of it, I'd leapt over the rail. The thirty feet passed in less than two seconds, my mind finally catching up as I crouched low to disburse the force from my fall, right hand touching the ground before me as I finally stilled.

Up close, my image of the man, or was it a man, before me changed little. Hallowed and partially transparent, like me.

Hello brother. Yes. That did sound right, somehow.

"I see you have awakened, Akhôrahil."

I struggled to find a response. And, when I did, the voice was not my own, and the words came slowly, "Yes."

Word, I guess. So lame. Shouldn't I at least gather information first?

"What… are we?"

Whatever I was, it was clear that he was was one too, and inclusive language like 'we' was more likely to get a response. See, aren't I a genius? Even great heroes don't have my skills.

"We are Kings."

Oh, so we're kings. Of kingdoms or chessboards, I wonder?

"Where then is my realm?" I asked, the vaguest hint of temper in my tone.

"Stolen." He, no, it, spat.

Then I am not a King at all.

"To take it back, The Master marshals his forces. Soon the traitors will burn and all realms will pay tribute to him."

So that's how it is. On a journey to retake my lost kingdom. Cool. Too bad I don't have one. Never did. Sorry, just

your average teen student here.

So, whoever this guy was, Freaky Face, yeah, Freaky Face was nuts.

How commensurately helpful. Truly.

Saying thanks for the info here seemed awkward, but leaving also seemed outrageously rude.

But asking for information from the clinically insane was ludicrous.

So, I just stood there like a perfect dolt. Just standing, staring at the elegant ceiling and commenting to myself about how dreary everything here seemed.

Somehow my earlier tension was gone, though I was in the dubious company of a frankenstein and no closer to escaping.

"What forces, against what traitors?" Yeah. Let's raise suspicions, so smart.

"The Master's hordes include all of the Races, and the traitors are everywhere. Ever stealing and dominating what is mine! I shall not forget the betrayal, ever. When I am avenged, when the dynasties of the betrayers are finished, only then shall I be at peace."

No offense, fellow creep, but you don't look like you'll ever be at peace.

"The Master…" I contemplated for a moment, "Then, as former kings-"

"True Kings!"

"As kings," I corrected easily, "Do we occupy official posts?"

He glared at me sternly, "When The Master grants you your new title, you shall know."

My further questioning of Freaky Face was interrupted by the appearance of seven more frankensteins.

Freaky Face seemed pleased as he gestured for us to follow him. At length, I did so, though reluctantly.

He led us from the room through several other ones, similar in make and model to the rest of the building. Finally, he brought us slowly up a winding staircase that seemed at least a couple hundred feet high, into a small room that overlooked the surrounding area.

What caught my attention, however, was not the landscape, though originally that should have been my foremost thought. Instead, what captured my attention was the roughly head-sized, perfectly spherical, crystal ball.

Freaky Face walked up to it reverently, speaking a single word, "Master."

In response, the orb seemed to light on fire, eventually settling into the admittedly unsettling visage of an eye. Or something approximating an eye. It was made of constant fire, and undoubtedly employed some form of witchcraft to hold its shape.

The eye seemed to speak, though eyes should not have such a skill, "The time has come. My forces gather, the Fortress is nearly ready. With you at their head, none shall stand against us. The blood of Númenor grows thin, the Elves leave for better shores, and the Dwarves care not. The age of Sauron has come, all shall fall before it, and Arda will be granted eternal Order beneath my scepter. The time is here! You shall take back your kingdoms, and be avenged."

Sauron. Arda. Numenor.

No mistake, someone had gone bonkers and pulled little ole me into their crazy reenactment or remake or whatever this was. Maybe I'd been frozen in carbonite for a while and this was the futuristic sense of humor at play?

Get a life people, playing pranks on poor dudes who just woke up after eons isn't cool.

Right. So, if they are nine freaks listening to a big fiery eye, that makes us the Nazgûl. If this is anything approaching a faithful retelling of Tolkien's masterpiece, we should become dark generals or some such?

No, no. You got it wrong, it's supposed to be Dark Generals. Much better.

"You shall be second only to me. This shall remain your base."

Told such, Freaky Face good-naturedly stepped back, basking in the glory of being the Dark Lord's second.

The next of us stepped forward, greeted by the eye, "The Easterling. Return to Dol Guldur. Keep the Elven King of Mirkwood busy, and keep watch for the Ring."

"Yes, Master." He bowed, and stepped behind mister second-in-command.

Again, one stepped forward, there strangely being no argument or confusion as to who should step first next. To me, it only confirmed that this was scripted.

"You shall take charge of the Black Gate. Keep watch over it and the plains of Dagorlad, and be ready for my call."

"You shall follow Khamûl to Dol Guldur."

"You shall search for news of the One Ring."

"You shall go to Dol Guldur."

"You shall take charge of Núrn, in the south of Mordor."

"You shall stay here with the Witch-King. Listen to his command."

Finally, my turn came. I presented myself before the eye, as the others had, but it, he, took a moment longer to pronounce my fate.

"You shall take charge of the Witch-King's finest. Listen to his command."

Well, better than 'Go to Dol Guldur.' Or was it? There at least I might meet Legolas.

But, well, if I was truly a Nazgul (Akhorahil?) then none of my favorite characters would respond very well to me. What a preposterous joke this was. I wished it would end soon.

At least one of the coolest characters was my direct boss. Yeah, Witch-King with his helmet on? Doesn't get any cooler than that. Movies gave him such a pathetic end though.

This was so stupid. A horrible dream. Or not. I remember dying. Or was that a dream too?

Better to focus on enjoying this little skit. If I was going to be a Dark General, I might as well savor it while it lasted. Instill some discipline into the orkish scum. Make a real army that would hold the line when Theoden charged in. Seriously, they were way too pathetic in that scene.

The flames flickered out, and the orange light of Sauron's eternal flame faded into the shadowed skies of Mordor.

Freaky Face, who I now understood to be the Witch-King, looked over us, "The Master's word is law. Go."

With that, the others filed out, though I remained. After-all, wasn't it easier just to ask my boss where my workplace was rather than look around like an idiot?

"You… Something is strange about you."

Uh, nope. Not at all, mister Witch-King. I'm 100% a normal Nazgul. No need to get suspicious.

"Those who are your finest… I do not know."

The Witch-King nodded almost imperceptibly, "And your armor was destroyed. Without it, you cannot truly touch the physical world. But fear not, The Master has, in his infinite wisdom, provided a new set. Come."

He led me out of what I was beginning to understand was the tower of Minas Morgul.

From there, we walked many meters through the drab castle, some of the time spent in the open air, but never outside the walls. The orkish sentries all bowed before the Witch-King as he passed by. We eventually came to a stop at what functioned as his personal office.

"The Master's craft has no equal. None other can make such a work." He pointed duly at the armor that sat on a rack in the corner.

I recognized it instantly, how could I not? It was the armor of a Nazgul, the most terrible of Sauron's servants. The cloak that went along with the set also hung there, specially enchanted by Sauron's will so that it could interact with both the Spirit and Physical Realms.

I slowly put on the armor, it fitting more perfectly than any glove ever could. It felt good to wear this. Empowering. As if there was nothing better.

And, truly, there was not. You see, as I learned, without special enhancements, nothing could touch me, or any inhabitant, of the Spirit-world. Thus, besides the other armors Sauron had made for his Black Riders, there was literally nothing I could wear.

Not that anything could beat this. It looked cool, was obviously tough, and felt better than any clothes I'd worn before.

"Your horse waits in the stable. To your new task I shall show you now."

X-X-X-X-X

To my new task he did show me.

Though, how should I put it, wasn't this setting a little too unbelievable?

"Choose. Which do you prefer?"

Wasn't this a little… RPGish?

Before me stood three groups. First, the heavy but well-balanced Uruk-hai of Mordor, a wee bit different from your Saruman style ones as far as gear was concerned but their utility could be inferred as equivalent. Second was the Dark Lord's equivalent of cavalry. Warg-riders. Third, Attack Trolls. Armored and absolutely massive, but a huge target and mentally retarded, they were obviously for attacking castles or other static defenses. The Rohirrim or even Gondor's armies would run absolute circles around them.

Scratch them off. I wasn't into trolls, though the sheer terror they naturally inspired would be amusing for a time.

The second choice was tempting for sure. A mobile strike force, wreaking havoc… But they offended my medieval sensibilities of a couched lance charge. Wolves, wargs, rather, were simply not built for such tactics. Frankly, in a large fight against a steady formation, they were worthless. Wargs likely couldn't be trained beyond accepting simple commands they had no problem with, like "eat him..." But I digress.

In the end, if they were just average infantrymen, the Witch-King wouldn't have shown them, right?

"The Uruk-hai." Really though, this whole pick your troops' attribute thing… Who thought this up? Cheesy mastermind who can't even properly be original.

The Leader of the Nazgûl pointed his hand to the ones I had chosen, "This is your Master now," He indicated myself, "Heed his command unto death."

"Heed his command unto death!" They shouted unanimously.

"Attend to your duties, Akhorahil, and be ever watchful, ever ready. The Master shall make his move soon. The Ring shall return to its true Master. Such is the fate of this world."

Well, sending him off without a reply would make me seem rude… "May the Darkness attend your path."

"And thine."

… Oh. My. Gosh. So Lame. 'May the Darkness attend your path'etic. That's what comes into your mind when you need a line to bid good-day to the Witch-King?! I sucked.

Hmm, hmm, on to more pressing matters, yes, more depressing matters… Wait! What's so depressing about being a Dark General in command of several hundred Uruks?

I just hoped they had their own quartermaster. I was so not drawing rations for these filth.

So, what's next, speech-making? Or would I just look that one stupid idiot from _Star Wars_ who gives a supposedly motivational speech to _already brainwashed_ troops. Genius.

I decided it would be pretty foolish of me to embar… that is, these loyal troops did not need to hear my glorious voice to be high in morale. They were the best, right?

Still, it's bad if I leave just like this, "Meet here tomorrow morning. Your training will begin then."

X-X-X-X

Even though I said training starts tomorrow, I had no idea what kind of training to do. We were at a mountain range, as I discovered through induction, so we could climb the cliff in forced-march mode.

Still, that felt more like a weed-out-the-weak session as compared to actual training.

But what could I actually teach these orks? I knew no more of swordsmanship than they, and don't even get started on bowmanship. I guess we could ask around about crossbows and get them some of those, or maybe work on some trial-and-error engineering projects.

The easiest thing would be to just have them run a few laps around the castle. Well, not around it, as that would include the mountain climbing exercise, but back and forth in front of it.

But Sauron didn't give me these guys so I could tell them to run back and forth and do jumping-jacks, now did he? I really didn't want to make him angry. Why? It didn't take a genius to realize that if this was anything approaching an accurate representation of _LOTR_ I couldn't just walk into Rivendell and say to Elrond, "Hey, bro, I somehow got stuck in this 'ere Nazgul body. Mind if I stay here 'till I get better?"

Yeah, no.

If these guys were the best now, in a year they needed to be able to beat half the forces of Mirkwood, solo. Yeah, goals are important! Aim high, miss small!

Who was I kidding? These Uruks, even if they were part human, were brute beasts. Teaching them would be like getting a donkey to fly or a moose to hunt reindeer.

Flying, eh? Now there was an area where I had some skills others here didn't. General knowledge mostly, but, allowing myself half a decade, I should be able to build a motor, no? Only I wasn't a blacksmith and explaining what I wanted wouldn't be on the easy side. Lessee, a combustion chamber with holes in it in which pistons would be stuck, the energy of the burning fuel would push on them, they'd need to have springs so they'd go back and forth, and that linear motion would then be converted to rotational motion. That would spin a wheel, which would spin another wheel, or not, depending how this motor fit into the plane, spinning a propeller, which was basically just a bunch of small wings.

But, because guns and bombs weren't a thing - I needed to go see Sarumaun the Powder-maun - this plane would only be useful for reconnaissance.

Which would be fine, really. Who wouldn't be impressed by a flying machine?

Still, we first needed oil, which I had no idea how to refine into petrol, meaning what the heck was I going to burn?

...In the first place, there's no guarantee that oil is even a thing. If Tolkien didn't include it in this world, I'm screwed.

Wrong. Because this isn't the real thing anyway, obviously that's impossible. Which means this is the real world, highly unlikely, and so there's oil, or this is somebody's virtual reality joke, in which case I doubt the designers thought to include every little thing. Like crude.

Which still leaves me crying me heart out with no way to fly.

Bad. Naughty. Evil.

Even if oil did exist, unless it conveniently spurted out of the ground in the middle of Mordor, I had no way to get it.

Back to the metaphorical drawing board with my imaginary brain. Yeah. Nazgul are ghosts, not really physical, so I had no brain. How could I even think? Stop being so materialist.

Training. Training Uruks. Training Uruks so they can kill my favorite characters. Truly this sucked.

And my least favorite ones. Slaughtering Frodo would be my pleasure.

Still, I didn't need an army for that. I could just knock on his door and stick a Morgul Blade in his gut. Or could I? Nazgul were immortal, well, they just weren't alive, but Frodo was a Hobbit. He had a start day, and an end day.

And, sad as it was, I didn't know the year. Even if someone told me 'it's TA such-and-so' I wouldn't be able to really interpret that meaningfully.

Training. Yes, training, what do normal people train for?

Well, sports would be the first thing, I guess. You know, Olympics, varsity, college teams going head-to-head, and pro. They all trained really hard. Army guys trained too, probably harder. And, as any small-minded person could tell, I was looking to train an army.

Basically, what do sports teams do to get ready? Let's look at football. First, they get in shape. No issues there. Second, you cement their team spirit, make sure they know who their teammates are. Know thyself. Then, they do some basic stuff, formulate their main strategy, 'are we a passing team or a running team?'. Finally, before the game against another team, they examine the enemy. Know thy enemy. Then, they'd have some guys play as if they're the enemy in practice, give the team some mock-experience.

Walla. There you go, you win. How? Get ready with teamwork, gather intelligence, know your strengths and your enemy's play style, practice, and go win.

Now you're thinking like a Dark General.

The Uruks were in shape, they had a general idea that they were fighting together against the west for Sauron, but they had no concept of their enemy. They were strong and loyal, but as yet untested. Or, at least, that was my impression.

Ork casualties were on the high side unless they totally overwhelmed the enemy, and even then, the frontline Orks died and the remainder killed maybe a couple guys max.

Not exactly veteran troops, no? We'd have to get these guys in serious shape. No more twenty Uruks vs. one Boromir/Aragorn and the Uruks lose. That's pathetic. Horrible. Marvelously bad results for such good odds. Just bad, man, couldn't they get it together?

Maybe recruiting some Haradrim would be better.

But, well, this is what I've got for now. Best to just live with it. Or whatever my existence could be called. Not quite living, since I was a Nazgul.

X-X-X-X-X

With my heart now steadfast in its determination, I surveyed my troops from atop my steed – an extremely well-bred horse that was not affected by the Black Breath, or frightened by the dark presence of a Nazgul.

The gear was the first thing to adjust. Swords were fine and good for going up ladders and fighting on the wall, but I wanted a force that would work best on the plain. Tightly-knit so that they would not have room to swing slabs of iron. The pike-square was my aim. An independent force that could simply stand in its place and withstand the fury of the Rohirrim.

Five pikemen deep with spears increasing in length to compensate and furnish my army with a wall of poked steel. Directly in the center would be myself, giving orders from atop my steed, and the space around me would be filled with archers and crossbowmen, musketeers were the eventual goal.

"Lay down your weapons."

The Uruks did so, though with some slight confusion in their expressions.

"First line, step forward forty paces." There were 25 rows of Uruks, each one 100 long. It was certainly well organized.

"Second, third, fourth, and fifth lines, forty paces forward."

Once everyone had finished, I nodded, "Row six, line up perpendicular to line one to their right side."

"Row seven, to the left."

There was some confusion on what to do, but with a helpful demonstration from myself, rows 6 and 7 found their places easily enough. Really, I couldn't complain, they were doing quite well.

"Row eight, line up in front of six, nine in front of seven, going on, one line at a time, until both the right and left flanks are five deep."

"Even lines up to line fourteen will be on the right, odd lines up to fifteen will be on the left."

This would leave us with four five-by-five corners that needed to be filled. Rather convenient, no?

"Line sixteen, split into four groups and stand at the corners," I rode over and signaled the dividing point of the groups, indicating where each should go.

"Lines seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty, go into the square."

"Lines twenty-one through twenty-five, step forward until you come abreast with the corner groups."

Again, the was some small amount of positioning error, but from within the square, I straightened things out.

"Lines twenty-one through twenty-five, face the outside."

With that, the square was complete. It was a bit loose, however. We needed a tight formation.

"Tighten! Square!"

Cue zero helpful responses.

"Shorten the distance between you and your fellows and step back to compensate."

...The Uruks were burly and loyal, but hardly great thinkers. Getting them to loosen and tighten on command took enough of the day, that is to say, the whole day, that I dismissed them until the morrow.

X-X-X-X

Swords were versatile and easy to comprehend at a basic level, spears were incredibly cheap and, of all weapons, the most suited to formations. Halberds were, in essence, more complex spears that permitted either chopping or hooking, or both. Maces were simple, a lump of metal on the end of a short cylinder, they were supremely efficient merely because of their pure bluntness. Swords, axes, spears, halberds, arrows, they all relied on sharpness.

Maces, however, never grew blunt, if only because they never claimed to be sharp.

Thus, as an untiring undead that could fight for days, maces (and other blunt weapons) were the sensible choice.

I hadn't ever really thought about _why_ the Witch-King used a flail, so caught was I by how impressive a figure he cut, but the guy was actually quite a thinker.

Takes one to know one. Or so they say.

Obtaining my newest choice in weaponry was as easy as finding the armory, which wasn't entirely complex. It was, however, rather on the humiliating side. Having to ask orcs for directions was impossibly embarrassing.

The all-metal mace felt light and comfortable in my hand, which I admittedly found rather disturbing.

Just how heavy was this thing?

It surely wasn't just a pound or two.

I'd surely love to give someone a pounding or two, though.

But… don't try this at home, kids, someone might get hurt.

 _Who even cared if an ork or two kicked the bucket anyway?_

Yeah, seriously, unless the Witch-King was going to spar with me, we were down to smashing up orks.

Or, soberingly, getting beat up by orks. I had all of zero experience with any metal weapon, without even mentioning my lack of aptitude with a mace.

Still, how hard could it possibly be? It was just a stick of metal capped by a ball.

The guard orcs weren't stupid enough to give me any trouble as I left. Sometimes it payed to be a Dark General.

 _ **End Chapter 2**_

 **Author's Note: Here's chapter two, finally, thanks for waiting patiently after that monstrously long prologue (sarcasm). Anyway, let me know what you think. Leave guesses, suggestions, but know that I am the author. Just because I reject your notions or refuse to offer anything beyond cryptic answers doesn't mean I hate you.**

 **Thanks for reading! Please feel free to review.**


	3. Dark General

**This is Iamwhononofyouare reporting for ff news, we've just received word that chapter three is needed.**

 **0X0X0**

 **Chapter Three: Dark General**

"The Master commands your presence."

If it weren't the Witch-King telling me, I guarantee you I'd snark back at the idiot with a line like, 'The Master demands a lot of things. Good for him.' But as things stood, self-preservation indicated that I should act subservient with my betters.

It didn't take a genius to see that the Witch-King was easily the most capable of the Nazgul, and I was, sadly, on the lower end.

Not my fault, ok? These jokers have had thousands of years to get good at whatever it is evil spirits are good at. I've barely been here a few days. Ok, fine, a few weeks.

So what if my Uruks can form a square and go to line and column formations on command? Magic isn't that easy. Or, at least, it shouldn't be, right?

I mean, really, Gandalf is how many thousands of years old and he can barely stop the sword of a balrog. I wasn't doing so bad against those statistics.

But I digress.

"The Master shall have my presence at once."

With no further dialogue, I rather unceremoniously left my office –where I'd been recreating the game of chess– and hurried across the fortress and up the stairs to where the Palantir was kept.

"Akhorahil, at your service." I greeted easily, struggling to keep the nervousness from my voice. This was the first time since I was given my assignment that I'd been in the presence Sauron.

"In the South of Nurn, certain Men, troublemakers from Khand, have lost respect for the name of Mordor and its Lord. They have raided the Haradrim. Return their hearts to a state of submission, or death."

"Anything else?"

The Eye narrowed in dissent, a clear indication to leave, but still I pressed, "In that case, when I return victorious, I ask that, at that time, you listen to my request."

"What is your desire, General?"

Ah, what a surprisingly good boss. In the movies, the poor misunderstood Sauron never got cast as anything besides evil incarnate. Blergh. I had no doubt he was evil, but he was also a pragmatist, and one of the most knowledgeable beings to grace Middle Earth. Not in the top ten of wisdom, though. Nobody in their right mind willingly gives up what amounts to heaven in exchange for thousands of years of war. Nobody.

Only insane guys like Satan and Sauron do that. Funny, isn't it, that they're so similar? #NotReally. After-all, Tolkien took inspiration from reality.

"I'd have liked to keep it a secret until I accomplished something of at least some worth, but that seems impossible now. What you've done with the horses you graciously granted to me and my brethren is most impressive." I paused here for effect, well, mostly to gather myself for the remaining bit, "My request is simple, if impertinent and ignorant. Without knowing whether you have attempted such a feat before, I ask that you do the same with humans."

"For what purpose would I do this?"

"Well, you see, after the amount of time I've been like this, being unable to touch anyone without killing them has been… disconcerting to my humanity. As for why you should, Lord, I humbly submit this: Why not? What could possibly be a greater achievement than the breaching of established law to bring the spirit and physical realms together?

"For, as you are surely aware, the Dark Horses are quite capable of perceiving spiritual phenomenon, myself included, armor or no."

The Eye seemed pensive at the very least as it answered calmly, "Very well, upon your successful return, I will hear your request."

He hadn't particularly stressed " _successful",_ but he hadn't needed to. The message was clear in my mind. And so would it be to anyone who found themselves in my unfortunate position.

As to the reasons behind my request, they were quite simple. A people capable of seeing and interacting with the higher plane was at once useful and dangerous. They could, potentially, kill me, my brothers in death, and even Sauron himself. I cared less for my continued existence than the other nine who would be endangered by the ascension of this new race. And, thus, by the simplest of reasonings, they were a smart choice.

In addition, in the hundreds of years to come, these people would interbreed with the others humans until only those who could see spirits would remain. At that point, my existence wouldn't be an abomination.

With no further words to my dark master, I left him to whatever it was he did on his own time.

X-X-X-X-X

My forces were disciplined and strong, but they were a slow force, armored and heavy. If the Men of Khand, horseback riders that they were, decided to flip us the bird and go elsewhere until we tired of the chase, then we were just out of luck.

To combat this sad state of affairs, I had a plan. We'd march in smaller parties, close enough to support each other in case of attack, but the Khand, arrogant punks that they were, would assume otherwise. In addition, if this didn't work, I was on my way to ask for some warg-riders from the Witch-King. These would serve as our scouts as we attempted to cut off the enemy's escape.

All of this was based on pitiful assumptions, but I had no recourse.

I was confident in my Uruks' capabilities, both of the mind and body. They were definitely smarter than the average ork. My confidence in myself was low, however. My broadest experience and strategy was RTS video games, and they fell drastically short of the real thing.

There was no bird's eye view for the commander here, no clicking on troops and telling them where to go, no simplified combat. Each person under my command was like a separate division, they all had different stats, different personalities.

That, I suppose, was, is, the point of discipline. To remove as many irregularities as possible to make it easier on the general in charge.

Sad, yes, but necessary. No one has the brainpower, or time, to command five thousand men individually. One has to break the man, and make a soldier.

But before I got too excited, I needed a few things. First, wargriders from the Witch-King. Second, several interpreters. Third, some idea on how to feed my army. I had what, almost 3000 uruks? It wasn't as easy as catch a local chicken and chow chow.

Honestly, I had zero idea. It was next to inconceivable to assume that we'd be able to support ourselves on what I was fairly sure amounted to the Mongolian steppe.

This could turn into a very lengthy operation if the faster Khand refused to give battle. It was necessary to set up a supply base. As for where it would be placed, that would depend on the maps.

X-X-X-X-X

Fortunately, the Witch-King had no shortage of lendable wargriders, and even kept a library filled with dusty tombs and durable scrolls. The books would prove interesting, once I somehow learned to read, but my primary

concern was a map that contained South Gondor, Harad, Khand, Nurn, and whatever was east of all that, if anything was.

Searching through the scrolls, notably made of some sort of animal hide, eventually revealed the necessary piece of equipment. After confirming with the librarian, a very tired and pale looking young man with strange makeup, that there were numerous good copies and that I certainly wouldn't get in trouble for taking it, I retreated to my study.

Or room. Or place where I slept, except I didn't sleep. Why did I even need a room? Sign of status I suppose.

Two things immediately stood out to me. First, Nurn was bigger than Mordor proper by a good bit, and second, Khand was around the same size.

It looked bad, honestly.

Against a more mobile force, heavy infantry only own the ground they stand on. It didn't take a tactical genius to figure that out.

Moreover, the terrain, flat plains, as expected, immensely favored horsemen. Wargriders were unquestionably more agile in the forest and mountains, but horses had a steadfast stamina that a giant wolf could only rarely beat.

Of course, horses were distinctly a prey species, and wargs were apex predators. Some way of manipulating their instinctual fear seemed expedient.

I only had a few wargs, not enough to be everywhere at once. Besides, it wasn't like a proper warhorse with a good rider on it would run in terror from a single warg.

Some way to increase the area covered…

Didn't wolves mark their territory with piss? I mean, I'm no horse, but I might think twice about entering the territory of a warg.

That was a good start, but making the horses a bit skittish wasn't enough to stop their riders.

Of course, if the riders overinterpreted their horses reactions and trusted in their animals' instincts, it could work, but did the Khand have such a convenient way of thinking?

I thought not.

Waging a mobile war against a more mobile, larger, force? Insanity.

Still, our side had something humans and horses didn't: Night-vision.

The wargs would leave piss and fecal matter around to keep the horses constantly nervous. Once the humans got used to this tactic and their horses' behavior, we'd strike in earnest.

The night of a new moon, with clouds. Total darkness. Depending on how noisy the humans were, we'd even have to ditch the armor. We'd surround the camp, and close in stealthily. It would be a slaughter.

X-X-X-X-X

My Uruks were steady, waiting for me to say something from atop my horse. I wasn't one to disappoint.

"You bunch of stinking half-breed curs, do you need a pep-talk?!"

"No sir!"

"Do you need your mommies to come see you off?!"

"No sir!"

"Are you going to fall out of the column?!"

"No sir!"

"Do you want to go eat some man-flesh?!"

"Sir, yes sir!"

That. That, my friends, is an army.

X-X-X-X-X

The first order of business was the march south. A distressingly time-consuming exercise that I won't here relate the details of, due to the immense boredom suffered.

Once we arrived at my Nazgul brother's seat of power, I made the necessary logistical arrangements. From there, we journeyed across the human populated area south of the sea of Nurn, an amazingly green area where farming was conducted. At the designated spot, we set up a base camp, where the supplies would be handled. I left four-hundred Uruks behind to man, or in this case perhaps orc, the fort.

The reason for leaving such a large portion of my force was simple: They would also have to convoy the food out to us. Help against raids would not be forthcoming in a timely fashion.

Long story short, all the soldiers could end up starving very fast if the Khand employed a tactic of any utility.

Frankly, it seemed likely that they would. These weren't the chivalry of Europe, these were Mongols.

But… Hope for the best?

I'm such a pathetic general. A wise man would plan for the worst case scenario.

… I was treating this like the Khand were the AI and I was a human. _Of course_ they're going to be stupider.

But, this wasn't a game. These were hardened warriors who'd raided Gondor. East of the Anduin only, yeah, but _Gondor._

Not exactly the time for a dramatic strategy overhaul, no? But maybe I was making this too hard.

'Primitive' people tended to be superstitious. Perhaps my mere appearance would cow them sufficiently.

 **XXX – Many days late** r...

I looked up when one of my soldiers, I hadn't bothered to learn their names, announced that riders approached.

There were twelve of them. One carrying a flag, ten with spears in hand, and the front rider, the leader undoubtedly, carried nothing. His horse had plenty, but his hands were empty.

Pretty universal indicator of 'I come in peace but I'm important so I have guards', no?

"Part! Line!"

The Uruks swiftly parted before me as I rode slowly to meet the incoming group. My translator naturally accompanied me.

The Khand… Khandian? I didn't know, but that didn't sound right… Anyway, the obvious leader said something that, as expected, I didn't understand.

"I am Runtang, son of the Lesser Chief of the Variags, Runwich."

Convenient translator, no? Nice that he didn't switch tenses around and just said it like they said it.

"I am Akhorahil, General of the Witch-King's Finest, by order of the Dark Lord Sauron."

I may not have known my daddy's name, but I knew where I got my authority around here.

Still, my dark presence had clearly disturbed the young, admittedly handsome man. I doubted he needed to hear my name and rank to know who sent me.

"Noble One, the Great Chief asks for the reason of your visit."

"A disturbing rumor has come to my master, the Dark Lord's, ears. A whispering tale that speaks of disloyalty and sedition. Surely it is not true?"

He shifted in his saddle uncomfortably, "Of course not, my lord! I would ask thee to allow me to face the ignoble accuser of my people, that I might slay him."

He talks well, doesn't he? Well, maybe to the sensibilities of this era. "The report comes from a place too high for you to challenge, and it seems to me unlikely to be falsehood. Have not your people raided the Haradrim?"

He straightened proudly at that, "The Variags take what we need from whom we need it."

"Right, right. That's also what the Dark Lord does himself, I hear. Trying to take his place, are we?"

"Never! Nonsense! My people know of the terror of the Dark Lord. We would never offend him."

"Runtang, son of Runwich, take me to your leader."

Politics, politics, proper speech and flowery language. Most importantly, carrot, stick, and always talk to the guy in charge.

X-X-X-X-X

The three-hundred Uruks that were in my group naturally came along as my guard, fully alert and still very much armed.

Caution was the name of the game for servants of evil, believe me. Bravery was for idiots like Elendil and Aragorn. In the latter's case, it worked out brilliantly, but anyone and their brother can tell you what happened when the leaders of the Last Alliance fought Sauron. They all died.

And then, Isildur, coward that he was, took the Dark Lord's finger with a low blow.

That's the version you heard in the East, at any rate. I'm sure in the West, the brave Isildur avenged his father using only a broken sword to defeat the Evil Lord of Supreme Darkness Sauron the Terrible. Just sayin'.

My point here? Didn't really have one, but we can twist it around and tell you that I was trying to illustrate propaganda and its propagation in all worlds.

That in itself is a point. There were serious similarities between this world, and my last one.

In addition, this particular story demonstrates the influence of the Dark Lord in the East. He made the history.

To them, the Easterlings, he is the only god.

From that point of view, I was an angel of the Evil God, simply put, a demon.

Not really that far off, honestly, even though the mere thought was offensive. My touch was poisonous, and my words came from an unseen mouth, and spoke only wickedness. Which good person can you show me that appeals to the desire to eat human flesh?

But, on the opposite side, to the Uruks, I'm not such a bad dude. I give them homes and purpose, plenty of empty promises. You know how many votes I'd win in an election for demon-congress?

2500\. Because none of my troops knew anyone better to vote for.

And that, my friends, is how you get power. Make yourself the only option.

That's what Sauron did here, through the stick and carrot. Obey me and get loot, rebel and plain die. No-one cares about what happens to you. If you choose to fight for 'good', the 'good-guys' will sit at home drinking ale and never even hear about your little rebellion.

It was a darn effective method. That's why everyone from the Sea of Rhun to Bellakar obeyed the eyeball.

Yup, yup, including my royal self.

No matter how great a guy he was, Gandalf would never accept a wraith. No matter how wise Elrond was, prejudice would command him to smite me. No matter how foolish Radagast was, he wasn't so stupid that the fact that I was constituted of black sorcery would escape him. No matter the insanity of Denethor, he would still command his guard to strike me down. And I _knew_ this.

Sauron also, undoubtedly knew. That was why he cared little for how well he treated Orcs, Goblins, Trolls, Wargs, and Wights. No-one else would even suffer their existence. The humans, elves, and dwarves in his employ received better conditions. Why? Because they had leverage. They could just leave.

My point? Leverage. To improve your conditions, you need to make the other guy think that you're worth it. Or, just make him think someone else will give you a better deal. That right there raises your worth. Economics, supply and demand. If there is only one of me, and there is demand for two of me, I'm suddenly worth around double what I used to be.

Now to apply my fresh lessons in the art of the deal.

We entered the center of the camp made of yurts and tents, and I was immediately impressed by the obvious chieftain's hut. It was twice as tall as any of the other shelters, and while the others seemed somewhat hodgepodge, this one was in perfect order, even the length of the tassels which hung from the rim were uniform.

In the back of the large circular yurt, a man, looking to be in his forties, sat on a raised dais. To either side lining the pathway were armed guards and courtiers. There were two standing men behind the dais, their faces just behind the king's ear. One was fairly young, though he tried to hide it with a thick black beard, and the other was grey, noble in appearance, and very well groomed, though hardly less bearded.

The inside of the yurt probably smelled of sweat and leather, but my senses weren't exactly in powerful working condition.

"I am Akhorahil, I serve the Dark Lord as his General and Emissary to the South." Ok, you're right, I was never appointed 'Emissary to the South', but these guys didn't know that. This was a perfectly riskless way to increase my perceived value.

An official looking man who stood to the right and was third nearest to the king announced, "This is the one called Vichystan, High Chief of the Variags, Raider of the East, Lord of Khand, The Shaven One, Loyal Servant of the Dark Lord."

Now what you mention it, dear herald, Vichystan was bald and wore no beard, unlike every other adult male in this hut. The last bit of the titles, by the way, oh naive ones, can be written off as lip-service.

But it was certainly politically stimulating. The Variags didn't intend to fight Sauron. They'd weighed their options, decided they could get mostly away with it, and raided the Haradrim. If no response came from the doom keeps of Mordor, it would be taken as tacit approval, and they would have continued until it got out of hand.

Wise and aged as he was, however, the deeply mysterious Dark Lord Sauron sent one of the Nine. One of the top twenty feared beings to walk Arda in the present day. And that's conservative, folks.

And the raiders were suitably cowed.

A swift response, a rebellion averted. Slow to punish, short to rule. -Proverbs of Akhorahil.

"As I rode into your camp, Chief Vichystan, I could not help but note the plenty of your people. It was not need that drove you to raid the Haradrim, hmm? But why would the Loyal Servant of the Dark Lord raid one of the Dark Lord's servants? For the Haradrim are famed for Mûmakil taming no more than their loyalty to Sauron, Giver of Rings."

I should have liked to recount that Vichystan and his attendants broke out in cold sweat and the sound of my sarcastic wrath, but sadly their expressions remained as ever.

I wasn't the most fearsome among the Nazgul, you see. That was the Witch-King, and even women and hobbits could face him down. Tough Variag warriors against the unfocused Akhorahil? It was no contest. They'd win, every time.

"The Haradrim are indeed known in the West for answering to Sauron, however, here in the East, men know better. They are disloyal curs who would revolt if given the slightest opportunity. Your humble servants merely nipped their over-plenty in the bud to keep them needy."

This guy was so full of crap I almost felt I should call off my warg-scat project, he had plenty to go around.

"How generous of you… to assume that the Dark Lord does not know the state of his servants. Could it be that you think yourselves wiser than he? Perhaps you are the ones needing _nipping_."

"My lord we would never!" The entire hall replied, excluding the high chief. He had dignity to maintain here.

But I'm a boundlessly cruel Nazgul overlord, it would be dramatically out of character to let things slide after just a little saber-rattling followed by some bowing ministers. Ever watched Asian historical dramas? The primary job of a minister is to bow and apologize. Seriously.

"Oh, I'm sure you would never… But actions speak louder than words, and whether you did it with such intention or not, what do you think this looks like, hmm?"

Silence greeted me. Bloody tribals.

"It looks like infighting is totally legal amongst the Lord's servants if I let you off this time. No, an example should always be made to dissuade others from becoming rebellious. Tell me, what should the punishment be?"

I half expected them to say something like "please let us off" or "please kill us" or bow or something.

But my other half expected just what happened. The High Chief looked at me with defiance. I could smell the aura in here. The guards were fingering their curved blades. Loot from Harad by the looks of it. I should have noticed sooner, that was a clear political statement.

But all official statements must be made, and I wasn't going to declare war without giving them a way out, "By the power vested in me by Sauron, Giver of Rings, Lord of Mordor, Ruler of the East, the Dark Lord, I hereby declare that the tribes of Khand shall return the full value of whatever they have stolen from the Haradrim and their vassals, and any other servants of the Dark Lord and their vassals, and further stipulate that restitution shall be made for whatever further damages may have been made or furthered by the slaughter of men and animals. Let it be heard and obeyed."

"You ask too much, wraith! Go back to your ghostly halls. The Variags refuse to give back what we have rightfully taken through superior mettle!" Vichystan stood as he declared thus, his face reddening with pure emotion.

And all the others said the same.

"Your refusal has been noted, Vichystan, Ruler of Curs. Don't blame me if there isn't enough of your tribe left to raid a charcoal-burner's hut." With such said, I left the camp.

X-X-X-X-X

Rallying the Uruks was easy, as they'd already received the signal to join into one group. Whatever my former plans were about dividing and conquering, I wanted to at least try a decisive pitched battle first. If the Variags chose to flee and not fight back however, I would have no choice but to wait for the grass to dry.

Then, I'd burn it. Sorry, Bambi and co.

Once all the Uruks were gathered, I gave them their distasteful instructions, "Don't look orderly now, you're stupid orks from Mordor in these men's eyes, and I'd like to keep it that way. Humans get very careless when they see an easy victory. Hold your spears loosely and not all at the same angle. Don't march in step and don't keep ranks. Remember your places though and wait for my signal. Upon my command, you'll form a shallow rearward echelon."

Now, I don't know if I got the naming right by the standards of earth, but here, a rearward echelon was a V-shaped formation with the point to the enemy. A forward echelon was the opposite, designed to envelope the enemy.

Naturally, if all went well, the Uruks in the center would retreat and the ones on the flanks would advance, switching things over to the forward echelon and finally surrounding the enemy. If only I had cavalry for the finale.

I envy you, Hannibal, the odds we face are not so different, but you had horsemen you lucky… Well, actually, it seems likely you were indeed a legitimate child. Sorry for the stray thought.

The fact remained though, whatever warg-riders I did have, they weren't enough in number to be used like a cavalry brigade.

And, as always, that left me at square one. Slow, heavy, trained infantry who own only the ground they stand on.

But my fears were allayed in a few minutes. The Variags weren't striking their tents, they were instead gathering into a fearsome mass, clearly expecting to run right over us.

I only hoped they didn't.

There must have been over two thousand horses with riders there, and that was certainly not an overestimation. And, even more frightfully, I knew this camp wasn't the only one. There were other mobile camps in Khand, dividing and combining whenever they grew too large for the ground to support, or too small to complete large-scale raids.

To be honest, this Vichystan probably wasn't the Lord-of-all-Khand that they clearly tried to make him out to be.

That brought up an interesting point. Allying with certain natives to crush their local rivals and increase your own power was how the Europeans imperialized almost the whole world.

Effective stuff, and, if I may say, a legacy I have inherited.

Now, my official goal was to spread the Dark Lord's influence unto the ends of the earth… of Middle Earth. Rather religious sounding.

But, my private goal?

I wasn't going to be content to stay a servant for long, that's simply not how I play a game. Increase your power, get subordinates, upgrade your territories, make outside alliances, - can't marry so how do I do that?- , and, finally, usurp or split-off.

I generally favor ursupation. No need to hurt the national power by going independent. Very messy, quite dangerous.

If Sauron could inherit the role of Dark Lord from Melkor, I could inherit it, in my own way, from Sauron.

Or, I could leave behind ambitions of grandeur and roam the whole world as a lonely spirit… how inticing. Not.

Back to the more charging matter at hand.

Yes, charging. The Variags certainly weren't slow about it today.

But I didn't mind. The sooner they came, the sooner this was over.

X-X-X-X-X

…

I opened my eyes, looking around, finding myself in a now familiar place.

Where was it?

How did I get here again?

I looked at my gaunt ghost hand, naked as it should not have been…

Where were my gauntlets?

... _Vichystan_

They…. they smashed us good.

How did it go?

Where was I then?

" _Form lines!"_

 _The Uruks were a tad confused about it, the fact that not the whole group was here throwing them off. We should have spent more time training… no time for that._

 _I heard something behind us, a thundering like the horses before us, far too close now…_

 _A glance over my shoulder confirmed my worst fears. Another group, almost as big as the one in front was charging our rear._

There wasn't time to switch to a defensive square.

 _The Uruks didn't know about the rear, best not to scare them, if we could just rout the closer ones in front of us in time and about-face to meet the ambushers, we could still win._

It didn't happen.

We lost.

But how did I end up back in this coffin? Nay, why was I here last time?

A respawn point?

But that doesn't explain why its me in the 'body' of this wraith, and not the ancient king himself.

Time for that later, methinks.

I stood up quickly, "My Lord," And greeted the Witch-King.

"Your failure stands in stark contrast to your previous confidence."

"I was arrogant, and believed my Uruks could win alone. Every defeat is a lesson. Never again shall I fight on the plains with no cavalry."

"Indeed you shan't. The Dark Lord has seen fit to reduce you to the armory for the time being. There you shall serve as the instrument of his will, forging weapons and armor only spirits, Maia, and Elves can forge."

I tried not to smile, and roughly succeeded. This was meant to be a demotion, but I could think of no finer task. To learn the smithing of Middle Earth was a boon indeed. And from the most master craftsman of them all, the Giver of Rings, Sauron.

I didn't even know wraiths could forge. Still, if Sauron wasn't doing it, and he wasn't, Eye Form and all, someone had to be crafting the Nazguls' armors. Unless there was a stockpile that barely ever dwindled.

But… How to say, looking at my body, I seem to have dwindled it myself.

At least, I'm fairly sure I used to be… less naked.

I won't be making any sarcastic remarks about venerable, and suitably shriveled, bits. No I shan't.

Since my new job was in the forge, re-clothing myself was no trouble.

Now to settle in smelting and hammering.

X-X-X-X-X

 **Author's Note: It's been way too long, eh, but here it is. This chapter ended up leading the story in a direction I hadn't originally intended. I was thinking more along the lines of repentant Variags go see Haradrim get everything settled and take a couple hostages. But, I think this is fine. You?**

 **Now, should next chapter be 3rd person of another part of middle earth, or should I keep this story strictly from Akhorahil's perspective?**


	4. Grim Armory

**Thank you all for sticking with me for this mess.**

 **Chapter IV, Grim Armory**

X-X-X-X-X

This was not a game. Even if I killed Gandalf, Saruman, one of my wraith brothers or Sauron himself, magic items wouldn't fall from their corpses -or nothingness left when one destroys a spirit- ready to use with their stats nicely displayed. And God forbid that I should have to manually compare it to my equipped gear.

No, here in the real world, spectres crafted armors and weapons with armors and weapons that other spectres made before. Nice little cycle of… death, eh?

And it was boring. Mostly. When Sauron was directly overseeing my work and instructing me, it was exciting, fun sometimes even, always full of exhilarating dread. I got the impression that he knew I wasn't really Akhorahil.

Well, one doesn't work with another for a few thousand years and not get to know them at least a bit.

So long as my existence wasn't abruptly snuffed out, whatever.

Although, I wasn't entirely sure why I was clinging to my existence so wholeheartedly.

Maybe if I died I'd get to go home. Home sounded nice. I missed momma's cooking, my sisters' naggings, my little brother's insanity.

But hey, they didn't need me, and here was I, making a living over a hot furnace without them. And what would I really be going back to?

A dead body?

I was dead there, even deader than I was here. I held to illusions, plenty of them, but in this I had none, however I came to be here, it had something to do with the loss of bodily function _there_.

No, here, over the fire and with a hammer in hand, my path seemed clear.

" _The Ring is mine!"_

Frodo's words once. Sauron's many times, Isildur's for a few years, and now mine.

I had to make my move carefully, stealthily.

The reasoning was simple. Sauron couldn't keep it secure. The good-guys won in the movies because of his folly. How hard would it have been to leave a company of orks on Mount Doom just in case, amiright?

And when the One Ring was destroyed, there was little doubt in my mind as to the fate of the Nazgul. Bound to this plane by the power of their rings, as Sauron was by his, even separated, and their rings bound to the One Ring… They would retreat to the realm of spirits, their true home for thousands of years, now finally come.

And was that so bad? Oblivion, judgment… Valinor? We'd get treated better than Melkor, right? Maybe a cell with space enough to throw a baseball while plotting our next escape?

Who was I kidding? Right, myself.

And lo and behold, too much philosophy, too little blacksmithery. This… what was I even trying to make in the first place?

The results held no evidence.

I really needed to stop doing this. _Focus, phantom, focus, phantom, concentrate you maggot!_

Nope. Not effective.

I was a sorry little creature, wasn't I?

Oh, go defeat huge armies of fierce tribesmen… Failed.

Oh, make a necklace… Failed.

Oh, stop wasting your time moping… Failed.

Seriously pathetic.

But I _was_ getting better, I could tell. While before axeheads I made could barely cut through pine planks, they could now cut through armor. Real, plate, armor.

Awesome, right?

My experimental weaponry wasn't turning out so well though.

Katana, failed.

Chinese Halberd, failed.

Crossbow, failed.

Heck, Metal Tube even, failed.

Rome wasn't built in a day, grindstones weren't popularized instantly, and steel wasn't invented for thousands of years. I just had to keep going, right?

" _Thomas Edison found two thousand ways not to make a light-bulb. But he only had to find one way to make it work."_

Yeah, and Tesla wanted free power for everyone and particle beam weapons. The bosses still went with Einstein's nuke.

That was the worry, here. The boss.

If one were to say that Sauron gave no pension, no retirement plan, and no permission to quit, one would be stating it mildly. He was a stern guy, possessing wisdom beyond almost everyones', and he was master manipulator. He almost got the elves to secure their own destruction. Elves.

In addition, he convinced the Numenoreans to sail for Valinor, though Eru sunk the fleet and stripped Sauron of his ability to shape-shift freely. Before then, his closest simile would have been Loki, from _Avengers_.

But if fear kept me totally in line, and I was afraid, then I was lower than a scrub. I patently refused this.

No, to grasp the earth and shake the heavens, for what other reason could I have been sent here?

 _For somebody's personal amusement?_ My mind… So helpful, truly legendary.

Besides, great heroes capable of shattering the heavens would naturally have a beauty or ten in their lives. If I was the main character, I would have already met with an enticing beauty, _non_?

Main character syndrome was the largest and most common flaw. I wasn't someone great, and believing I could do the impossible had already failed here.

But that didn't mean I could do nothing. It didn't mean I didn't have an advantage. Didn't mean I would give up on my ambitions to be an ambitious character.

Shoot for the stars and you may just reach the moon, right?

Too bad I was -it truly seemed a while ago now- a lousy teenager most definitely without a degree in rocket science.

But I did understand 18th century rifling, and with a little help from the locals, soon some parties would be hurling metal balls around.

If I wanted that to happen.

Honestly, while it would give me the advantage for a while, eventually everyone would have them. Then what of dragons and wights and fellbeasts? Wouldn't they turn into jokes? Best to keep things low-key.

With that in mind, a single firearm for my personal use would be the upper limit.

Now that I could do.

No need to worry about mass-production efficiency or costs.

I knew Sauron was watching me, but not always, and it was easy to feel when his gaze was focused. Not just on me, if he focused it at all, I could tell. I expected the other Nazgul could as well. Just a part of our odd little linking through rings.

Sounds like marriage.

Creepy~

X-X-X-X-X

Once I got to thinking, making a cast for my barrel wasn't too difficult. It was crude perhaps, but I wasn't weak and thus I could afford a thick shell.

Rifling the inside involved making a couple contraptions, but adapting a potter's wheel to spin a drill wasn't hard. The harder bit was getting the drill to spin fast enough with enough regularity to bite into heated metal.

In two months, working on the side, I'd already completed my gun.

The real challenge wasn't in the making of something new, just the concept. That was why I didn't allow Sauron to see the process at all, and covered up my use of the drill by giving it other uses.

In this time, my accuracy with a hammer had already gotten much better. Before my inner thoughts were like turmoil, causing me to miss and grow more frustrated. Now, while still thinking internally, I was able to continuously pound, cast, smelt, sharpen, and order more metal.

I understood now why Sauron had me learn a craft.

It wasn't about making powerful swords or enchanted rings, no, it was simpler.

Blacksmithing calmed my vacillating spirit and lent confidence, calmness under pressure, the ability to discern the precise moment to strike.

Truly worthy of being called The One whose Eye Pierces the Soul… even without psychoanalysis sessions, Sauron had determined exactly what I was lacking.

It wasn't ingenuity, or courage, it wasn't loyalty, or strength. It was simply stability.

This kind of person… was he really the cruel and vindictive Dark Lord?

To me, he had already taken a higher station.

He was simply a man who holds his friends close and crushes all who oppose him. From a certain worldview, he was a great hero already.

Too bad both he and I weren't qualified for this title, already lacking physical bodies, aish.

"Akhorahil."

Was it that time so soon? "Yes, Master."

"I have decided you are ready. Today you shall learn the arts of enchantment."

"Yes, Master." Finally? I don't know, it just felt odd now, rather than exciting. With Sauron, everything felt abrupt, and yet premeditated.

"The first key to enchanting an object is to understand it thoroughly, this is of course easiest for its creator, hence one does not learn enchanting first, but always to craft mundane things."

This guy, while he was extremely terrifying and was literally an eyeball, he always explained diligently what he wanted you to know, and simply ignored any questions about what he didn't care for you to know. Shaping a mind, brainwashing, teaching a skill, weren't these all the same principle? How could he not know?

"The second is to have a powerful innate spirit. Elves, Valar, all those who do not die mortal deaths naturally have enough for at least simple things.

"You also, being dead but bound to the mortal plane, can be considered thus. The Witch-King has already proven this."

In other words, I'm not the first he's taught this. No surprise that Nazgul #1 gets the #1 treatment.

"But unlike Elves and Valar, whose powers derive from their life, yours arises instead from your death which does not die."

And wasn't that poetic. And confusing.

"For this reason, their presence to you will always be painful, noticeable at least, and yours to them will also be discomfiting. For this reason Elves will forever be able to sense when a dark power is afoot, including you, Akhorahil."

Why smack his own stick around when he can just clearly point out the enemies who can always find you? This guy didn't miss a chance to drive a mouse into a corner, however subtly.

But, since this is all about enchantments anyway, I suppose this whole story about spirit, life-force, death-force, is integral to that.

"The stronger their reaction, the stronger an opposing power is."

Wait, what? I'm not stupid bro…

With impeccable and predictable timing, Sauron erased his own presence, though I could still faintly feel that his gaze was directed here, though only because of my ring.

As expected, four Haradrim opened the door just then, throwing in an elf. They left just as quickly.

This method of power-testing, how can it be accurate!?

What can I say?

Ah, yes, _as expected of an elf_. Very beautiful, impeccable, aside from the bloody marks. Luckily, I didn't embarrass myself with this reaction, it really was a female.

But, as Sauron had declared, the reaction said it all.

Her gaze pierced into me like two arrows shot from Legolas' bow, but I showed nothing -how could I?- merely glancing at her.

Her gaze was nothing like the Variags', who'd been afraid on the basis of legend and only being able to sense the smallest bit of my evil power, the rest being my mysterious appearance and dread reputation.

No, here was primal fear. Understanding. She truly understood now where she was and just who had captured her, without even looking at me first, she knew what I was.

Evil. Bad. Dark. Villain.

Nâzgul.

Ah man, it really well and truly sucked being me.

As Sauron had said, I could feel her presence as well, but, as expected, although I knew she was there, and light, she wasn't a threat. Too weak. But even the smallest light will drive away darkness in a radius, no matter how small. At least, that's the way it ought to be.

"Why do you fear me, she-elf?" I asked. I'd like to impress you and say it was as gentle as I could make it, but it really wasn't, and even if it were, how could my voice possibly reassure her? Nay, it served only to prove this was not a dream.

"I do not fear you, wraith."

If it weren't so obviously not true, I'd be inclined to believe you. Such calmness in your tone, very good, yes.

I smiled a smile she could not see, "But you do."

Before this could turn into childishness, I pressed on, "Although you should not. How can light fear darkness? Instead the coming of night makes every small light obvious, while in the day, one cannot appreciate the radiance of a candle."

She was obviously confused, and speechlessly looked at me, maintaining composure. Indeed, what was I saying? Only the truth.

"Indeed, if I did not exist, what you be? A nobody she-elf, that's what. But now, here I am, a darkness to your light, and your courage does not waver, of course not, darkness is not wind that it should blow out candles. Instead, the deeper the darkness, the farther a lone light shines."

I smiled again and continued, enjoying the feeling of monologuing, "If not for me, your light would never be seen, but now that you and I have met, who shall fail to know of you? Not by name perhaps, but as another brave victim who did not succumb, you shall be forever remembered as the victim of a tragedy…" Or something like that. Blast you, train of thought, get back here!

"That doesn't make sense."

Don't point it out! How could you, you cruel she-elf, wuu wuu.

I wanted to ehem, but clearing a throat that's clearly not there is weird, no? "My point is, when would you have the chance to prove to yourself that you are strong like now? Living your life peacefully, not knowing what you'd do when you're forced to call on evil. Now, you know.

"Just as light reveals what the darkness hides, so darkness reveals the lights."

Pretty good, right? Poetic, truthful, and deep. Even I was going to be moved.

She just stood there.

Wise. Wise indeed. To offer any comment would be to admit interest, to have interest would invite the other party in closer, until finally one might be swayed.

Such a beautifully closed mind. Stunning, yes.

But if Sauron hadn't interrupted yet, this wasn't over. What was he waiting for?

Ah, yes, hadn't he mentioned proximity? If he wanted a good measurement, one experiment wasn't enough, how scientific, most impressive.

I stepped closer to the she-elf, resisting the temptation to finger some of the tools and items that were lying around. This was 'my shop' still, after-all.

Why did I resist? Adding extra factors would hurt the measurement. The reaction test would be messed up if she reacted to anything but me. Things like fear of torture were misplaced.

The closer I drew, the tighter she drew herself up, but she refused to retreat even a step, or advance a step either.

Indeed, this was a battle of wills, not weapons, to pick up a hammer and swing at me would be to surrender.

Eventually I was just a foot from here, my spiked helmet towering over her, my hollow face half a head higher than her scratched but naturally flawless one.

"I am the one called Akhorahil of the Nine."

"…."

"Silent the She-Elf, welcome to my humble workshop." Well, my home really. Not needing to eat or sleep, I only left when the monotony got bad, maybe once or twice in three days.

"I'd offer you tea… but perhaps man's blood would be more fitting? It sells for a pretty penny down in the market."

"I'd offer you a sword, but your lackeys already took mine."

I raised my right eyebrow out of habit, even though she couldn't see it, "Who am I? The Dark Lord? I have no lackeys, only fellow servants, whatever was done to you was outside my knowledge and control."

No need to lie on this point, before Sauron's hinting, I truly had no idea about this matter. Talk about impromptu speeches, your respect for me just went up, yeah?

Again, she deftly refused to engage me. But I've already gotten you twice, these hostile comments, although your willpower is good, its not enough for this Dark General to feel intimidated.

Still, wasn't this enough for Sauron? Did he fall asleep while listening to my glorious speech? Impossible. Under seven suns, not even one person could fall asleep for my monologue.

That is, not one person who never sleeps at all. No, Sauron was still watching, I knew. But what for? What was this test about?

Or was the fact that the she-elf was still standing already proof of my failure?

I stepped back from the elf and turned around, showing her my invulnerable back.

At worst, invulnerable to her. I hadn't made some death-flag statement about how no man could kill me, at the very least.

Wait. He was confident with the race of men, but could an elf do it?

I stepped forward twice more and then began circling the elfen woman, contemplating.

She turned with me, keeping me always in front of her. Outside of my steps and her shuffling, and her breathing, the room was silent.

As a Nazgul, I could make breathing sounds and go through the motions, but I didn't actually need to, and even back home, I had the bad habit of forgetting to breathe while focused.

So, these days, I was usually practicing holding my breath.

I eyed her carefully, and after a few rounds, finally stopped.

"And you, elf, have you no argument?"

"Arguing with the dead is pointless."

Burn.

Can't deny it. I dyed the ground red, yup. An epic, glorious confrontation between man and machine… unexpectedly, machine won.

But, here, wasn't this technically untrue? To my understanding, the rings turned the kings into wraiths before their deaths, not after.

"How do you define life? A warm body? Would you say that a snake is not alive? Nay, it cannot be this. The regular beating of a heart? Some species during hibernation go for whole minutes without a heartbeat, and breathe not at all. So then, what shall we say?"

She just stared.

"I'd like to say cognition, but that'd be me favoring myself. I'm not sure, but I'd say single cell organisms are quite alive but don't quite think, you know?"

You know? How stupid. She didn't even know about single-cell organisms. If they even existed here.

"Some again may take a philosophical bent, saying that being alive means taking actions, or that being alive is to be perceived as such by other minds.

"While they're all right in a sense, they're all wrong in another sense. Is there one single characteristic that all living beings uniquely share? I mean not obvious ones like God made everybody, he made the nonliving things too, ya know?"

She stared at me, but I could tell she was thinking about it. She was wondering what excuse I would come up with to say I was alive.

"It's actually fairly obvious…" I taunted.

And that's where she was wrong.

"C'mon..."

I held no illusions.

"It's secretions! Secretions! Bodily fluids, excrement!"

I… was already dead.

Her eyes stared into mine, taking my meaning in. Finally, she smiled bitterly.

Hey, hey, that's the face I wanna be making instead. You're still alive, aren't you? Smile for real.

And as one of the unbelonging ones, I had only one route left.

I focused my intentions on the she-elf, eliminating my pity for a moment, and revealed my true nature.

She screamed briefly, and fainted. I would have caught her, but that would kill her for real.

I stared in the direction of The Eye, asking him in my heart, my unbeating heart, _is this enough?_

Aye. I understood this test the moment she was brought before me, I just didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit what I was, what I am. I wanted to run away, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, I would be rejected wherever I turned. Only here was I wanted, needed, trusted.

I knew what Sauron was doing to _my_ head, when he brought her here, but I couldn't stop it.

Because he was right.

X-X-X-X-X

From there, my studies were grueling, but simple enough.

Pound, forge, speak.

A black, magic, tongue came from my ethereal mouth, willing bits of power into pieces of iron. Was the power mine? A portion of my soul? Absorbed from my environment? The embodiment of powerful emotions? Was it all of these? Did it matter?

No, not really. Not, at least, for the use of the equipment.

For the purposes of clarity and good craftsmanship however, it was important to understand.

The power was from both me and the object in question. That was why good materials and knowing the item intimately were so important. To draw out more power, both raw power and the knowledge it have it rise to the surface was necessary.

That was why, for me, iron was perfect.

56-Fe. Protons and electrons 52, so atomic number 26, and 30 neutrons. Powerful as a magnet, and the ideal of all matter in the universe.

 _What,_ you ask? Yes. When atoms split or fuse, what to they seek to become? Carbon? Nitrogen? Gold? Nay, iron, the most stable element.

In a nuclear sense, not chemical, kids.

When I thought of iron, that's what came to mind. Along with all the other obvious stuff like steel is an iron-alloy, iron is strong, the Iron Age is the final age in _Age of Empires I…_ and a very important period in ancient history. And, of course, pure iron is really not that great of a material. At least not for what I needed.

I'd give you a history lesson on specific usages of iron, but I feel that would be misleading.

Here, none of those things had ever happened.

But that didn't make me an idiot, and it didn't erase my memories. I knew some things.

Sadly, I didn't have a labor force directly under me, or access to natural gas. But I digress.

In essence, my vague knowledge about iron was higher than most people's vague knowledge about it, allowing me to create stronger enchantments more easily on iron objects.

Prodigy, prodigy! Is what they'd cry when they saw my handiwork.

Yeah, no. I was considered to be how many thousand years old? Ain't no prodigy in his thousands.

Even so, enchanting wasn't exactly a be-all-and-end-all trade. My swords were a bit sharper, armor was a bit harder, war-hammers a bit lighter… It really was a bit when I say a bit.

Apparently the strongest enchantment a Nazgul had produced was, of course, by the Witch-King, and it was his sword. What did this strongest Nazgul enchantment allow precisely?

The Witch-King, could cause the sword to burst out in flames, normal orange flames I might note, _with the assistance of words of power in the field._

It just was a bit easier than casting a spell outright.

C'mon, man. I wanted something legendary. But, nope.

Blacksmithing was infinitely more useful than enchanting, period.

With that in mind, I focused most of my efforts there. I wasn't a Valar like Sauron, I simply didn't have the power to rival his greatest constructs.

And yet, even he got the elves to help with the rings.

Now there was an interesting concept. Cooperation was possible. If all nine of us got together, I wonder just how strong the new strongest Nazgul enchantment would be.

And as for the she-elf who helped me to start on this road?

I'd say I had no idea, but that would be a lie. She and I met regularly, I to give speeches and test my powers, and she to be the victim of my whims.

Not that my whims were cruel, note. I made a point of always bringing nice food and moving her to a clean cell.

I was trying my best to mimic my master, Sauron. Yes, I was manipulating her.

Even as she detested me, she inevitably looked forward to my coming. Who wouldn't? Not only was I a terrifying relief from boredom, I also was associated with relief from the discomforts of imprisonment. Even if I could simply order her treatment to be improved, but did no such thing.

Stockholm syndrome… I wonder about you. In this world where Stockholm is not a place, do you exist?

Today was another such day. Getting the cooks to prepare the food was no longer a trouble, they knew exactly what I wanted, and did their best to please. And, according to my wishes, they always sent a different person to carry the food, no one went twice to see the elf, excepting myself and the normal guards.

Today, it was, as usual, some random lad from Harad. Normally one might think that to find a new person every time, one would need to resort to orcs, but there was no such thing. The Haradrim carried on a bustling trade with this castle, despite its appearance, and new blood was always arriving, sometimes staying, sometimes dying, sometimes returning.

The brat this time was an idiot, though. Didn't anyone ever teach him not to stare at the hollow interior of a Nazgul's mask?

Whatever.

Up the stairs, over the walkways, into the high security level, key not required for apparitions. Castle guards were truly of the most understanding breed.

"What shall it be today, dear elf, a tale of cities or of mountains?"

She just stared at me. Things always started this way, but, by the end, she was always talking. Being starved for contact really did wonders for the psyche.

"Cities then. There once were three great cities, one in the north, another in the west, and finally a city in the east, called Grim City. Now the northern city was very beautiful, and all its people were noble and wise. The city of the west looked to be the noblest of all the cities, but people of the western city were mixed, and had generally greedy natures and poor tempers, public order was maintained through force. In Grim City, the people were even worse, while in the west at least a few citizens were amiable and pleasant, in Grim City there was said to not even be one."

The stage is set.

"Now, one day, the King of the western city decided that Grim City was really his city, and that the people there had stolen it, though they had lived there for generations. So he determined not to let a single one of those cruel, ugly, ignoble thieves live.

"The King of Grim City wasn't really surprised. Everyone knew of the greedy nature of the western city, and each King was always prepared for war. Grim City's King, however, wasn't willing to fight a war that could be avoided, so he sent a message to the western King, saying, 'O western King, why do you attack Grim City? Our people have lived here for a long time, and cannot be expected to leave. O western King, why do you attack Grim City? Is not the northern city known to be the strongest and most noble city, have they ever attacked anyone's city or burnt their fields?'"

I smiled a smile she could not see.

"But the western King declared, 'What strongest city, is your Grim City not the largest and most powerful city, causing all peoples to live in fear of it and its poor-mannered inhabitants?'

"And, rather than relent, the western King sent a message to the northern King, saying, 'O wise King of the North, all peoples can see the rising terror in the east, will you not join with my armies and destroy all the inhabitants of Grim City with us?'

"And the northern King saw that Grim City was truly too populous, and that its people would soon outgrow their lands, by then, would it not to be late too kill them all? And so he replied, 'All of our armies will go out with you, western King, and together will shall go back and forth in Grim City, not even sparing the children or the aged.'

"And the King of Grim City heard of it. Outraged, he gathered his whole host and went out to fight against the genocidal kings of the north and west. The battle was long and arduous, and thousands lay dead everywhere. Seeing that his own armies were not winning, the King of Grim City challenged the other Kings to a duel, saying, 'O, Kings of West and North, this battle is not good, and causes much harm to all our peoples, let us settle our differences between ourselves, and stop destroying our subjects.'"

Can you see which story I am telling, little elf, can you see?

"The King of the West was very angry, for his armies were dieing the fastest, and he thought to himself that if he could win the duel, it would indeed save many lives of the western and northern cities, as to those from eastern Grim City, he did not care, for he hated them more than ever. The King of the North was wise, however, and saw that they were winning the war, he wanted to win surely, but the western King wanted to win cheaply.

"The western King overruled the wise and noble northern King, and so they went up together to fight the King of Grim City, who met them by himself. The battle was fierce, and all peoples looked closely, forgetting all else and focusing only on the Duel of Kings. Tired but victorious, the one who had won the fight was actually the outnumbered King of Grim City. But the western King's son could not accept the result of the duel, his father had been killed, how could he? And so he forgot all honor and struck the exhausted King who won, that ignoble King of Grim City, killing him.

"And so all the Kings died. The wise northern King, who steeled his heart to death and cared nothing for it, the greedy western King, who ignored his allies' advice on the basis on saving lives, and the King of Grim City, who had challenged his foes to an honorable duel and won. The only one left standing was the back-stabbing son of the west."

And so here we see yet again, kids, the one left standing after a fight is not the noblest and most able, it is not the one who strikes first, nor the one who accepts all challenges, nor is it he who conquers all challengers. It is instead he who strikes unexpectedly and without any so-called honor. And in the end, Isildur was called a hero.

"And what do you think happened after that?" I asked winningly.

The elf looked me in the eye -somehow, she couldn't _see_ them, so how- and said, "The back-stabbing son ruled over the broken remnants of the cities until another man without honor killed him too."

"Very good, how did you know?"

"Everyone knows this tale, even if they don't try to portray the King of Grim City in such a positive light. Besides, your tale is wrong, Sauron attacked the elves first."

Busted.

"But the way I tell it is how most of the people of the east see things. In their eyes, Gondor's pretensions of honor and nobility are meaningless, in the end, all men are the same."

She nodded enlightenedly, "It's a lie though. Not all men are the same. Some of them still speak after they're already dead."

Burn. She always makes sure to get one in on me, doesn't she?

"So, I've been meaning to ask you, why have you not faded? According to the guards, all of the others elves kept here always have."

"Not all elves choose to give up where there is no hope."

I nodded largely, a metal squeak accompanying the motion. Seemed some maintenance was in order.

"In that case, I do not know whether I should be impressed with the elves, or amazed at their stupidity. Is one foolish for never giving up, or is one persistent? In your case, I shall choose to be impressed. You're not a fool."

"Unlike you."

Her mouth just keeps getting worse.

"Ah, yes, foolish Akhorahil, no question there. I've been a fool for longer than I've been dead."

"Don't expect me to argue with you there. Some stranger comes and gives you a ring and you just put it on?"

I _really_ wanted to say 'that wasn't me!' but I held back. The walls have ears in any castle.

"Eh," Instead, I shrugged it off, "Its not so bad. Do you think I had chances before to keep pretty birds in little cages where I could come hear their chirping whenever I wanted?"

Her face gracefully formed itself into a frown. What can I say; elvish faces refuse to wrinkle.

"So I am but a bird." There wasn't even a trace of depression in her tone, her voice simply glided over the words.

"A pretty bird," I reminded her gently, "And don't forget that to your people orcs are lower than dogs."

"Someday, dog-lord, this little bird will fly far far away, and tell all the other birdies about you."

"I should like nothing more. I imagine the tale of the lord of bird-killers who treats pretty little birds well will be well-received. Save me a cage?"

"Deal."

X-X-X-X-X

 **Authors Note: And there it is. Finally. I've started college for real now, and somehow have more motivation to write than during the summer? Its dumb.**

 **The ideas in the chapter have been in my head for a while, although they came out onto the page a little differently than I expected. That's writing. It writes itself.**

 **As always, review, and please don't forget that this story isn't taking itself seriously. You also shouldn't take it too seriously. I try to keep things accurate, funny, and interesting, but ambiguities exist. As a ff author, I take advantage of them. Thanks for reading!**

 **Until next time,**

 **Iamwhononofyouare**


	5. Pale Light of the West

**Disclaimer: I own my time, not LoTR. Well, at least from a human perspective.**

 **Chapter V, Pale Light of the West**

X-X-X-X-X

The day was a cold one, wet and nearly freezing but not snowy. Just the sort of weather one expected here in the 12th month of the year.

But, as he looked down at the city, not _his_ city, yet, he knew that today was also a joyous day, despite the gloomy atmosphere and the clearly visible orange glow of the eastern Eye.

Today, the line of Húrin was continued, and the house of the stewards of Gondor extended into the next generation.

But perhaps it was because he was not directly there, and because he was a man, and not a mother, the excitement didn't quite reach his bones.

Or perhaps it was it was because the line of the _stewards_ was being continued. For hundreds of years, his ancestors had guarded and led Gondor, and he and his son after him would too. All in the interests of the _rightful king_. Whoever that was.

If he was so rightful and just, why didn't he just come flying over to save the day when the Eye was pushed just east of Gondor by the Mirkwood elves, too weak to kill it, and too scared to live near it, so just pass the danger on why do we not? Gondor could handle it, obviously.

He didn't understand what went on in the heads of the so-called _White Council_ , in which Gondor, led by stewards or not, had no say.

But such thoughts had no place here. For better or for worse, Gondor needed whatever assistance that they could now offer, and offending a man was no way to become his ally.

A man wearing plate armor walked in seamlessly. Over his breastpiece laid a black surcoat emblazoned with the image of his service, his honor, and his knighthood: The White Tree.

"My lord Denethor, it is a boy."

Inwardly he smiled, the news was excellent, but outwardly he showed nothing; shows of emotion were for his family, not knights sworn to his house's service, "Take me to him."

"Yes, my lord."

Denethor wasn't stupid enough to ask questions on the way, this knight had probably been standing guard at the door with a fellow or two, and had made his way over directly after hearing the classic wailing and the yell of the midwife announcing the gender.

It wasn't Denethor's first time through the wringer, he knew how these things went.

If it were, he would have been there. The first time, he _had_ been there.

He only hoped that Finduilas would forgive him for his selfish caution.

Denethor hadn't strayed far, just far enough away to not hear any yelling from the birthing room, and so they arrived quickly.

The guards asked no questions when they saw him, nor did they open the door, they only stood aside in silent deference.

Denethor himself would decide when to cross that threshold.

He dallied not at all, unwilling to display any weakness before the knights, and equally unwilling to leave his wife alone for another moment in this trying time.

The door opened gently, creaking slightly as it neared the end of its swing, and again as he latched it behind him.

"Finduilas." Denethor spoke first, hushed and gentle, as the whole room was.

Finduilas' gaze quickly went from Denethor to the baby in her arms, "The brat is already sleeping. Ungrateful child causes me pain fit to die and doesn't even stay up long enough to greet his father." She looked back to Denethor slowly, "Isn't he beautiful?"

Denethor looked at the child, and then back into his wife's eyes, as if staring into her soul, "He will never be half so beautiful as you, my love."

"Poor child, just born and here your father's already cursing you to be ugly. Too bad it won't stick, your sire is too handsome for that."

Denethor smiled at the light banter, all was well.

"Here, hold him for a bit, your poor wife is too weak to support such a heavy burden."

 _Aye,_ Though Denethor silently, _Very heavy. All the world shall look to you for leadership, my boy._

Denethor stepped over nimbly, not shy in the least about holding his newborn son. He'd already gone through the sheer annoyance in his youth where his decidedly unmarried tutor taught him how to hold a baby properly. All as part of the training course for the perfect gentleman.

And, as expected, those hours spent were hours invested.

Denethor would never have forgiven himself if he was utterly clueless about what to do when his own son was born.

He held the child in his arms, pondering for a moment, but long before his majority, Denethor had become decisive, "He shall be called Boromir."

Soon after, the bells were set to ringing all around the White City. A son was born, and even orange eastern skies and cold air would not dispel the joy. At least, not from Denethor's heart.

X-X-X-X-X

"So weak."

Denethor frowned a little at the comment, Boromir's lineage was certainly more noble, more powerful, healthier, and stronger, than your average knight's child, but that didn't excuse arrogance.

If that was what this was.

Interfering too often in childrens' fights sometimes took a wrong turn, he felt. It was perhaps better to simply tell the parents that they didn't need to teach their children undue restraint when it came to taking insults from his son. So long as no faces were scarred and no one was maimed, all was well.

These were boys, after-all, and they _would_ be boys, under the watchful eyes of their parents or in the dead of night with only sycophant servants keeping an eye on them.

And here Denethor spoke, or rather thought, from experience. His own father had been very clear about the hierarchy and just what noble stewards should be learning. Any fighting skills Denethor did know, were practically self-taught.

As a result, he'd had to be twice as shrewd and three times as vocally threatening. At least he felt so.

The subtle pressure a well-trained warrior possessed was undeniable. It commanded respect. Respect that was earned.

That was what Denethor wanted for his child. Not authority only through lineage, but also through personal stature.

And no one who saw the boy could blame him in this. The child was clearly well-built and hearty, even at the tender age of seven.

His reading and writing instructor reported a lack of diligence, though not intelligence, furthering the point. Boromir was a born to be a man among men, not a scholar amongst the women, staying at home in the day of battle.

And while Denethor knew where his own talents lied, precisely there with the scholars, some part of him was jealous. But he didn't hate the child for it, that would be meaningless. Instead, it only translated to more pride.

His son, standing there, a bruise or three on him while all the other little boys he was being brought up with were on the ground or slowly getting up, that said it all. High-pitched moans of pain and some with snotty little noses belied the age of the youngsters; that being scarcely past their mothers' breasts.

He only hoped the lad wouldn't grow to despise those less gifted than he. It would bring him only sorrow.

Boromir must have noticed the gaze, and looked up, grinning wide enough to expose bloody teeth.

 _Little brats._

Denethor was a bit upset at the sight. Fighting was fine, yes, good, even, certainly necessary, but there was no cause or call for his son lacking teeth.

 _Baby teeth,_ He reminded himself, it wouldn't actually become a huge issue until his adult teeth came in. But how it would ruin his chances with the ladies if he really did lack them….

And Denethor worried about these things.

Realizing it was a bit belated, he smiled back and waved at his boy, who, after the acknowledgment, turned to pick up those boys he was closest with, apologizing for the pain and gently teasing for the weakness.

It warmed his father's heart, but really, every time Denethor saw his firstborn son, his heart swelled.

X-X-X-X-X

Denethor turned away. He couldn't bear to look.

He didn't dare to imprint this memory in his soul, though he knew it would be.

Boromir looked towards him, tears not even suppressed. They'd both carry this sorrow for all time.

But the lump in his throat was too big. Denethor knew he should be a father here, convey something deep and profound that would help his son… but he couldn't. All he could do was run away, turn away, try to imagine a better day.

And he felt pathetic. He spared a glance at the corpse in the room, an unbidden tear welling in his eye as he turned and walked directly to the door. He couldn't face this.

Not now.

Not ever.

 _Just why?_

She was a better wife than he'd been a husband, he knew, a better mother than he'd been a father. So why was she dead, while he yet lived? Fate seemed cruel.

But Denethor was more than a mourning husband and single father. He was the steward. And not just some butler for a wealthy merchant or an oddly-named bookkeeper. He was the Steward of Gondor.

And for every moment he had had to put away his grief for his people, a little part of his heart died.

He loved Gondor, he loved his people. He even enjoyed ruling. But he couldn't take this…

But he did. He took it all.

And whenever his second son couldn't understand how broken he felt, he was crushed all the more.

He knew it was wrong, to behave badly towards his son for such a small, petty, reason.

No. Not petty. _Her_ death would never be small, or petty, or meaningless. Denethor would never allow it.

And whenever that boy smiled, it hurt his broken heart. That smile should have been _hers_. But she'd never gotten to see it. Died before her son had even been weaned, very nearly died with him suckling at her breast…

And it hurt. It hurt to see that Faramir didn't truly feel the grief, because he'd never known _her._

The only thing Faramir felt was his father's feelings.

And his father's feelings had been a mess ever since _she_ died.

Things truly were not how they were supposed to be. They should all have been a happy family, a bastion of support for each other as they faced the darkness of the world together.

But instead they grew increasingly apart. Boromir dealt with his mother's death and sided more with Faramir, disappointed in his father's continuing refusal to just let her be dead; but all the same understanding it.

But Boromir wasn't destined to the same fate as his brother. Boromir was the heir, and Faramir the spare. Boromir pleased his father, in that depressed sort of pleased he now got, wherever he turned, Faramir was never good enough. Boromir was more handsome, more extroverted, and simply a more talented leader of men, Faramir was good at things, but Boromir always seemed to be a step ahead.

He always felt inadequate. He loved his brother, looked up to him, and wanted to please his father, but he could never be enough. And it pushed him away, ever so slowly.

And so he took up things his brother didn't focus on. Faramir was far more bookish than his brother and in addition decided that as an adult, he wouldn't just be an accomplished Knight, he would be a Ranger of Ithilien. It suited his father fine. There was no need for a succession crisis and Boromir had been recognized from a very young age as a suitable heir to the stewardship.

It wasn't long before Faramir was a Captain of the Rangers, hunting orks and defending Gondor beyond its present borders, and when he was off duty, he came home and spent time with his brother, and his books.

It was only a little while longer before disturbing rumors began to come from Minas Morgul. The orks were being amassed, and a large number of The Nine were spotted in the vicinity. An attack on Osgiliath seemed the only answer as to why.

Faramir left immediately, and on his Lord Father's command, Boromir soon followed.

They rode to hold for the light, and drive back the shadow.

X-X-X-X-X

 **Authors Note: Well, this was a nice and short interlude. Did you like it, hate it, TLDR it? Let me know in your reviews. Oh, and don't worry, this chapter wasn't pointless.**

 **Also, I mean to post this one a long time ago. Enjoy the double update.**


	6. Ashen Resurgence

**Disclaimer: Fortunately for you all, I don't own LoTR or its characters, marketable material, or plotline.**

 **Chapter VI, Ashen Resurgence**

X-X-X-X-X

The metal clanking was unmistakable. One doesn't live for some years -decades?- around a person without learning the particular sound of their gait. The Witch-King was close, and coming straight for me.

I put my hammer away, not bothering with the item I was trying to make before. It was a failed product, through and through.

"My Lord," I greeted at the Witch-King's entry.

"You have been reinstated. The Dark Lord requires your services."

My eyes widened. I had always known that, someday, I'd be getting back in action. Today didn't really feel like the day though.

Odd that Sauron sent a messenger rather than telling me himself. Too busy, or was talking to me that exhausting?

"My thanks, and may my services be rendered duly." Yeah, pretty sure that one's not in the official textbook of acceptable responses.

"Follow me."

So brief, my dear Head of the Nine. With that, he led me out of my workshop and further out of the citadel proper.

There, standing in twenty-five rows, with one hundred a row, were iron-clad uruk-hai. My formation. It ought to have been destroyed in Khand, but _there it was_ , neatly awaiting me, its general and creator... its generator. Heh.

I turned to the Witch-King slowly, slightly confused, "My Lord, this is not an illusion, is it?"

"No."

Still terse, the Witch-King marched on to where several other of my brothers in death were waiting on horses. After he'd mounted, he turned to me, "Definite news of the Ring has reached our Lord's ear. We," And here he obviously meant those behind him and himself, not I, "Shall retrieve it. We must take a circuitous route to avoid Gondorian rangers, in the interim, you shall take charge with your troops as a core, and capture East Osgiliath. Do not cross the river without instruction from myself or our Lord."

Surprisingly long-winded for him, but I suppose the gravity of the instructions merited such a tiring of his tireless vocal chords. Funny how Nazgul were.

"I shall take it within the month."

He narrowed his eyes at me, "Do so then, and do not fail to keep it. The Dark Lord's plans move to completion."

Yeah, right. Oh, rather, well, I guess so? I'd been out of the loop for the last few years, to say the least. I didn't even know how long it had been, or how many weapons I'd forged, or how far I'd come. What I knew seemed natural now, and I'd grown comfortable..ish in my own skin.

But whoa, if we're taking East Osgiliath... actually, I have no idea what that means, timeline wise, and for all I know, this definite news is _not_ "Baggins, Shire" from Gollum.

That being said, it's good to be back in action? Dang, I still can't drop that question mark. I just don't know how to feel about killing Gondorians. They're the good guys, right? I just hoped I didn't end up killing someone with Numenorian blood.

Why? Well, why not? I have to worry about something.

Without further ado, the Witch-King and the Nazgul with him rode off, not galloping in the least, and heading east of all directions. He did say circuitous though, and Minas Morgul was already terribly close to Gondorian outposts.

I turned to survey my troops more thoroughly, noting with some slight pride that their primary weapon was something I had 'designed'. It was a pike modeled after the Chinese Halberd, with a long handle fitted with a bladed head, some eight inches long, at whose base was a five inch blade, fitted at a right angle to the main head. Directly opposite the five incher there was a somewhat oddly shaped protrusion designed to be used in catching enemy weapons, and with skilled use, it proved the deciding factor in polearm duels.

Needless to say, I'd forged the first one. Somewhat less obviously, I forged all of them. I hadn't really thought too much of it when Sauron told me to practice by making that particular breed of halberd head for some ungodly length of time. His training was like that sometimes.

But I was happy with it, of course. Still, this was a siege, or perhaps better put, an assault that we were preparing for. Not exactly ideal pike-warfare if it turned into house-to-house. Street fighting should still be fine though.

The all new action game: Street Fighter Osgiliath! Play as an Uruk and use the Chinese halberd unique weapon!

Sounds fun.

If memory serves, we, being the Sauron side, are 'supposed' to win this fight.

But, well, for all I know Akhorahil was 'supposed' to win in Khand, or even never go at all. Whatever I thought I knew was almost useless anyway.

Best to work on strategy.

With many advisors victory is certain, as Solomon said. Too bad he ended up taking the advice of the many advisors in his bed, eh? Victory... Yeah, sure.

We want military victory here, but beautiful females may still be on the short list.

X-X-X-X-X

"I'll put it bluntly, my dear, I want to hire you."

The line she was expecting when I visited off schedule? Probably not.

The she-elf looked at me blankly, not even comprehending it for a moment.

Then, "As _what exactly_?"

Ah, yes, that bit. So good of you to remind me.

"As an," How best to break this to her and still get an affirmative? "Adjutant."

"Adjutant." She repeated skeptically.

"Militarily. I want you to serve as my second in command." Right. What was I thinking again? Gee, I'm off to fight Gondor here, the good guys, hello.

"And why me?" Her left eyebrow quirked a bit at me, as if mocking my idiocy.

"I need someone I trust."

"And that's me how exactly?" She asked, almost rhetorically, gesturing to her cell.

Ah, but it's good to say my way of speaking infected her so thoroughly over the years. Such casualness. I think I may succeed. Whatever else we might have been, and she not even giving her name once, we were friends.

I spoke again, "I don't trust you to serve the Dark Lord," She seemed slightly dumbfounded there, "I trust you to serve as a voice of reason. I don't want to wage wars of slaughter and destruction. Winning without fighting is the ideal."

Perhaps she still couldn't connect my personality to my visage, because she took a moment to accept that I was actually serious.

Khand had taught me many things, among them my inadequacies as a diplomat. That situation should have never turned into armed combat. Never.

I couldn't hope for that here, but forcing a retreat was still preferable to a costly assault. Lucky that there were no civilians in Osgiliath at any rate.

"And how do you know I wouldn't simply run away?"

"And forfeit your pay and honor? Please." I pulled out a blank scroll, I always kept some on me in case I randomly wanted to jot something down, along with a personally designed pen, which, yes, included a spring. It was clunky, but it came close to modern equipment. The ink wasn't always perfect though.

"A contract?" She queried incisively.

"Just so. I'm sure we can find some agreement."

"A dead man's deal? I'll decline."

I furrowed my brows, "Ridiculous. This puts you in the position in which you can expect the highest positive impact on events. Frankly put, outside my offer, you'll rot in this cell until the Dark Lord chooses to end your existence. With this, you have a chance to influence major events. Who knows, perhaps you can trick me into a foolish strategy that results in Mordor's demise."

There really was no option here, if you asked me.

"And," I amended, "Your pitiful worries about working for the evil side are meaningless. To do nothing is also reprehensible. At least try, _elf_."

She looked at me, conflicted.

"You chose not to fade for _something_."

Her fingers twitched and she looked away briefly, "I accept, in my name I shall render just and righteous advice and service."

I grinned, _finally_ , "And what name would that be?"

"Aemorniel, at your service," She smiled sweetly, the name seeming to cause a small tremor in the room.

Funny to say names have power, but for spiritually attuned beings like us, they did, so it was technically possible.

Drawing up the contract was completed smoothly from there, and I could rest eas- no, no rest for the wicked, I could have no rest easily.

X-X-X-X-X

With Aemorniel just behind me, also on a horse, though hers was soft beige, I rode to survey Osgiliath, the main force following slowly under command of the competent quartermaster. Logistical operations were truly his forte.

Ithilien was a rocky place, between Minas Morgul and Osgiliath, not fit for human habitation, and any animals that would have lived here had long since been hunted by either Gondorians or Sauronese.

Suffice to say, it was a barren wasteland second only to the territory around Mount Doom, which was too hot of soil to permit plant life.

Osgiliath wasn't terribly far, but it was two days on horseback away. The army would take at least three to arrive, likely four, as they were carrying supplies and half-constructed siege weapons. The counterweights were fortunately everywhere, along with ammo, so there was no trouble with that, but the timber was necessarily transported.

Osgiliath wasn't precisely a sight to be seen for its grandeur, but it was no less impressive. It impressed one with the ravages of time. Clearly once a great city, every single building sat in shambles, and half the streets were covered with rubble.

It represented Gondor as surely as I represented Sauron. It was old, worn-down, and spoke of glories past. I was hollow, dead, and needed a ring to survive.

And Osgiliath, like Sauron, was old news. The army we had with us would have been scoffed away by friend and foe in the Second Age, but here men quaked in their boots at the sight of it.

Osgiliath's defenses were poor. Stacked up rubble protected the city from a cavalry charge, but orcs could clamber up it unaided by a ladder, or even boots. There were watchmen posted approximately every 100 feet. Not enough men on the walls to repel even the slightest attack, relying instead on a quick response time by the central force and expert scouting by the Ithilien rangers to alert them to major forces.

Motion from the front 'gate' drew my attention.

And that'd be the rangers bringing news of our attack, judging from the exhaustion evident in the newly entered rider's horse. One doesn't ride that hard without cause.

Still, I must say, very efficient scouting.

"They'll have learned of the advance then," Aemorniel reminded.

"Just so. Not that I mind, I had zero chance of preventing the report from reaching them, and they have not the time to receive reinforcements from Minas Tirith."

"Then why the siege gear?" She queried pointedly.

I turned deliberately to her, "Because without seeing it for my eyes, I'd never believe that a central defensive location like this would have such murderously bad fortifications. I wanted to believe in Gondor."

A quarter smile of amusement floated across her face at that line

Yes, yes, me wanting to believe in the good guys. It's rather incredible to the residents of this world, but to me, it was as natural as breathing.

We rode around a bit more, until a sentries' call alerted us to the fact that we'd been seen. With that as our catalyst, we turned, and returned to the main force. We were not harassed.

In my case, I can understand their reluctance, but Aemorniel was a perfectly handsome woman. I'd want to harass her, if I was a guy.

Wait.

I am a man, still, aren't I?

Well, I did harass her enough that now she works for me. Heheh. Still a man.

X-X-X-X-X

It was the day after the she-elf and myself's little scouting adventure that the arrows started coming. Sparse and annoying at first, the march grew wearisome as my column approached Osgiliath.

Nevertheless, between what warg support we had and the numerous archers -of varied but decent skill- in my regiment, a considerable portion of the fool Rangers were obliterated, and casualties were low. Overall, the Ithilien raiders killed slightly less than two of my soldiers for every one of them. Not a bad rate for the Uruks, if you take the movies for reference.

Plain Ork casualties were not recorded.

Still, refilling empty slots in the ranks was always a pain, so I preferred zero casualties. War was war then as now, however, and blood was necessarily spilt.

Well, not actually necessarily. Gondor could just pay nominal tribute to Mordor and get on with their lives. Seriously.

To convey my point of view to the Gondorians was precisely my intention. To that end, as the troops saw to pitching camp as for a siege, I prepared a white flag, disarmed myself and my aide-de-camp, and rode towards the gates, if they might be called such, of Osgiliath.

Aemorniel was neither enthusiastic nor opposed. It worried me, somewhat. That was the careful deliberance of a plotter.

But if she meant to betray her solemn contract, then I had misjudged her, and I deserved to be betrayed.

I was halfway surprised and doubly impressed that the Rangers did not shoot us as we approached. Perhaps parley was still used by men of honor here. It boded well.

"Halt, in the name of the Steward!" The guardsman hailed us, his voice narrow with concealed fear and hate.

"We come in peace, to discuss terms!" Aemorniel replied for us. I was grateful for her acceptance of the role she was given. My voice tended to make western men quail.

The guard said nothing in reply, but called out to the other side of the wall, over his shoulder. I did not make out his words, but I was sure the she-elf had. If they meant to shoot, she would have warned.

An expression of shock came to the man's face at a yell from behind before he recovered and instructed loudly, "Dismount, disarm, and approach the gate! Captain Boromir will meet with you personally!"

I dismounted with a calm and unhaste not felt within. Boromir. Could it be the same? Son of the Steward and Heir of Gondor, meeting me? It seemed unlikely. The man on the wall ought to have reported my nature.

No, I realized. He sought to inspire his men. If he refused to meet me, a Nazgul, he showed fear. He likely considered this the entire purpose of the meeting. Unbidden, a curse came to my mind.

If I was right, he had no intention to negotiate or surrender. He intended to parley merely to prove he had the steel to face down a Nazgul. But, also, if I'd sent a lesser messenger, he'd have merely sent them away or shot them.

At least like this, I had a chance to meet him and present my case.

As I approached the gate, Boromir's side of the issue turned in my mind. He could not surrender to the Dark Lord here, or anywhere. Gondor teetered on the edge of collapse, the so-called Princes paying less respect to the house of Stewards each successive generation. Each no doubt internally coveted the throne, but would not move for fear of the others.

To move aside for the Nazgul here would be seen as a vile weakness in the Stewards' line, if not outright service to the Dark Lord. No, he'd send me packing soon enough, after saying some courageous lines for the people on the wall to hear and spread among their own.

But perhaps, I chuckled, he was not counting on the elf. Few elves served the Dark Lord, and fewer still were known to. I glanced at my compatriot. To these men, she would represent her entire race to them. Would represent the surrender and submission of all elves to Sauron.

I saw now the price I'd really asked her to pay. To be hated, reviled, and scorned, by men, by her own, by dwarves, and hobbits, by trees and all things light. Hosts of evil! What had possessed her to agree? Was I really a friend to her, in her heart?

The gates, raw lumber, thick and untreated, swung open to reveal a young man, too young to be a commander of the White Tower through merit alone, with his second, an elder man with the stiff air of a noble soldier.

It was Boromir. As handsome as any tale could paint him, and taller than most men, with a bearing of nobility so naturally expressed it belied comprehension. I drew to my full height, increased by the hood I wore over my mail, and looked the Steward's son in the eye. He did not flinch.

"Glory to the line of Stewards, may the land of Gondor prosper ever." I greeted steadily, without mockery.

Boromir hesitated at my greeting, far from a customary line from a foe, "What brings you here, dead man?" He finally decided.

"The Nazgul are not dead, nor are they living. You should read more books, young man." I corrected him smoothly.

Boromir showed little of the irritation he felt, "I ask again, Nazgul, what ails you that you come for parley? There can be no peace between Good and Evil."

I smiled a little, not that anyone could see, "And yet here we are, talking. May it ever be."

His eyes narrowed, as if only now realizing his mistake, "A man of honor respects the rites of war, even when abused by Lords of Evil."

I leaned in an inch or two, for intimidation, "I've abused nothing but a few scraps of metal. But I did not come here to brag about my many talents, nor lecture you on Gondorian propaganda. Surrender the fortress, and tell your Lord Father that Gondorian Lords may rule Gondor for as long as the sun sets in the west and rises in the east, if they will but pay homage and obeisance to the Lord of Mordor."

"Gondor will never surrender to Darkness."

"Then call it by another name, if you wish to keep your country's legacy pure." I said dismissively, "Will _you_ surrender to _me_?"

"Never in a thousand years or a hundred battles." He returned sternly, "Not if all my men lay dead and wounded, and not a man woman or child was left to my house but I, not even then, would I surrender."

"I pray that you may live to eat those words in full, but soon you shall in part. This fortress," I raised my voice so that the soldiers could hear, "Is but a ruin of an age gone by. No one lives in it, no one trades in it. No one cares for it. I should not have come here but for one reason: The Dark Lord demands it. This fortress is claimed by him, and he shall have it. And when," My voice had drifted down a little, but I picked up again here, "Boromir flees from it, as my Uruks pour into this pitiful city, you, Gondorians, will lie dead in the streets, and I will give leave that you may be eaten, your armor stripped, and your weapons taken. Hear now my words, that you all living now may yet live hence, if you retreat across the river now." I quietened, "Tomorrow, I attack."

With such said, I turned and left, Aemorniel pausing to give a mocking nod to Boromir before she turned to follow.

I hadn't so much lied as I had misled Boromir. I was indeed attacking tomorrow, from the modern perspective. I knew not how the Gondorians told time, but for me, the day began at midnight.

It was then I would attack. The choice was clear and certain. Uruk-hai had superior vision in the dark, as compared to men. Some part of me pitied the men that would die for my vain ambitions, but I had given them the chance to retreat.

War was, is, like that.

"You mean to attack tonight?"

I turned to Aemorniel, surprised by the question, "We did discuss that, yes. Why?"

"They are ready for it."

I saw no sign… forget that, I hired her for this. I would have quirked a brow, and honestly, I did do so, but she obviously couldn't see it, so I spoke, "What tells you this?"

"The firewood, pitch, in places, arrow supplies on the 'walls'."

"He _has_ had days' notice of my coming."

She looked me in the face, "You do not mean to turn aside, do you?"

"If I meant to turn aside, I should have done so long before I stood before Osgiliath's ruins."

"So be it." She turned to leave.

"Thank you, Aemorniel," The name rasped from my wraith-tongue like a curse, but only because elvish did not agree with me. I could learn it well enough, but it was quite literally painful to speak it, "Rest up, you'll need to watch the fighting."

She smiled a small and bitter smile at that, nodding as she turned to ride to her tent.

I hoped she didn't think it a form of cruel and slightly subtle torture by me. A grim reminder of her place and new service. But even if she did, I would not go out of my way to attempt to correct the notion.

It was well enough if she was reminded occasionally. For now, at least, we both served Evil.

X-X-X-X-X

War wasn't easy. I told myself that every day I mounted my horse as a general. I did it because I wanted it to be true.

But, truthfully, a wee bit of me knew that statement for a lie.

War was plenty easy, so long as you had willing soldiers.

And Darkness of the Tower were orks willing to kill. They'd fight each other with next to no provocation.

It was kinda gross to watch. Cookpots had to be filled with something, and orks vastly preferred meat. They didn't have a lot of internal moral dilemmas about the subject of cannibalism.

We'll leave that thought there. Hanging. Like a leg over a fire. Just waiting to be ready.

And then… _crunch._

I tore my eyes away, focusing on my trained Uruks. These were the guys who would win the fight, and I expected Capitan Boromir, Heir of the Steward, Temporary Defender of Osgiliath, knew that.

Well that he did.

My plan was fairly simple: a force of orks to the gate, warg-riders with orkish archer support to the north side, just by the river, and another swarm of ork rabble to the south.

Boromir, smart fellow that he was, would hold a good portion of his troops in reserve, waiting for the inevitable hammer blow from the heavily armored Uruk formations.

Sadly, he would be very disappointed. The Uruks would maintain token readiness to fool him into thinking I was fooling him, but would largely be resting until dawn. Then, with all the defenders tired and stiff from waiting and fighting, we'd rush the little slope of rubble they called a wall, and end things.

And if the orks broke through before that? So much the better. I could rouse the boys and _adapt_.

Ah.

And there was his plan. He'd let one of the groups in, feigning, prepare his reserve, and just as I committed my Uruks, he'd turn and crush the irregulars, just in time to send them swarming back over the wall, breaking my trained but not battle-tested organization…

It was a good plan, _I_ thought.

That said, I didn't know how much he knew.

Still, assuming the worst wasn't a bad course.

If one group broke through, we'd instead send the Uruks to a whole new attack point, between the gate and the river on the north side.

I shared my thoughts with Aemorniel deliberately, not leaving out a whisker.

The she-elf nodded along, frowning at all the right points.

"Would this Boromir take such a risk as you propose, however?"

"If he does not, plan A it may yet be."

"And if you are right, and he does do this thing, is it not possible that if you send no help to the 'breakers', they may yet be defeated by the initial retreaters, needing to assistance from the assumed reserve?"

It was. "It is." I answered emotionlessly.

"And what then? 'Assuming the worst isn't a bad plan'." She quoted back at me.

Darkness, but she could be lovely annoying.

"Then I can't say. I'll have committed almost all of our forces at that point."

"Perhaps we should revisit the plan from the top. Why are you so opposed to a general assault across the whole face?"

I know I hired her for disagreeing with me, but it sometimes really sucked. Explaining was what a good fellow; a good boss; did, though.

"We don't have the numbers. With that long a stretch, we'll be spread thin."

She waved a hand dismissively, "Boromir has far fewer. Far."

True. Getting needlessly complicated when you had an obvious advantage with no real counter wasn't the wisest, perhaps.

"I won't have the Uruks break up smaller than half-rows."

"You're far too attached to your formations."

Ugh. I was too attached, and I knew that.

But that regiment was kinda my baby, if you will. And finding it restored to me when I thought everything was lost? That meant something.

"Finally, and most importantly, that would spread the combat out over too much ground to get any kind of accurate information on our side. Boromir, on the other hand, will have established names for locations. His men can say 'the south watch post has fallen' and he'll know exactly what they mean. I don't have a clue. If I order a general assault like that, I give up control, leadership, everything. It's set and forget." I glanced up to Aemorniel's face, waiting for her return argument.

She just looked at me with understanding, "You hate how _he_ controls you, don't you?"

I glared at her.

"You hate not being in control, in the know, because it reminds you of your time there. Under him. You hate how he keeps secrets and uses you, manipulates you."

I held up my hand there, "Do not attempt to hypnotize me. I do not hate anything, or anyone. Hate is something I have chosen to reject. It is easily twisted, and never righteous."

I may have been trying to convince myself, to lie to myself, but I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe I could still live, and love, and feel compassion, pity, and remorse. And hate went against that. To hate anything, even Sauron, could compromise all my internal debates and resolutions in a heartbeat.

So I would be calm, and rational, and right. Even here, in the command tent, as I contemplate ending lives, I would do it with understanding, and regret. Not hate. Never hate.

I could see the irrational hate in orks' eyes towards humans. They wanted them all dead. It clouded their judgement, and prevented right choices. The same hate, reflected, did the same thing to Men.

Aemorniel stared, whispering something that my wraith-ears couldn't make out.

X-X-X-X-X

I could stop this, I knew.

Watching the troops ready and march to their locations, that was almost all I could think of.

I could call this whole dreadful affair off, for one more night.

But procrastinating wouldn't make anything better. The logical choice was to pull the tape off quickly, even if you lost a few hairs.

And I really believed that. I would have felt a chill of realization in my spine if I had one, but it was the thought that counted.

And so it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from Akhorahil the un-Dead, that all the orks should advance upon the ruin, and push the defenders across the river.

Horns sounded from the points of assault as the orks approached, to rouse the defenders and give them courage.

A good system, if a little flawed.

Following a little whit of Aemorniel's advice, I'd sent hornblowers to sneak next to the wall, where they now blew their horns in supposed warning. The call was a little off unfortunately, but it might still spread some mild confusion.

I turned my attention to the southern assault on the wall. Rangers had begun to thin the horde with well-aimed shots, rarely missing even in the dark. With the moon a bare sliver, and the Mordor side clouded over, there was plenty of light for an ork to make do, but not nearly enough for the average human to be comfortable.

To my eyes, there was basically no difference. Thanks, wraith-hood.

No, not my hood, my being a wraith.

Sometimes I could really be an idiot.

At that thought, the first ork to reach the wall began scrambling up and the horde soon began to press up against the wall, spreading out laterally and finding places to climb.

Soon enough, a small portion of hell erupted as the defenders lit pre-placed pitch on fire, covering some of the easiest ways up in a strong blaze that no one was about to go through. Oil flasks were thrown like some sort of ancient Molotov cocktails into the mass at the base of the wall, lighting up the night and giving the defenders a better view.

A good plan, and expected from a defending force in any night assault.

Still, I did wonder how much fuel the good Captain had to burn.

Just as quickly, bow-carrying archer orks in the back became to fire arrows; some poisoned, some flaming, some plain; at the defenders on the wall, creating the first Gondorian casualties.

Gondorian Pikemen came in, shoving and stabbing at orks as they scaled, hurling them down easily from their precarious perches. But a few of the orks dodge and continued, whist others grabbed firmly to their foes' polearms, hurling themselves back down.

Sometimes they failed, more often they took the weapon with them, and sometimes the human didn't let go. Let's just say those poor fools didn't last the night.

All-in-all, it was about as I expected here.

Riding at a trot to the gate, I found a similar scene, but with more desperate attempts by both sides at one crucial location: The gate itself. Several battering rams, whole trees, really, fitted with sturdy handles and an iron cap, had been prepared for the purpose. Most were lying on the ground, abandoned, but one was being swung at the gate, new orks taking the place of the rapidly withered carriers.

The initial rammers, clad in armor, all lay dead already, peppered with arrows.

Still, several rangers had been felled by orkish bow… bow-ork-ship? Bowmanship, yes, and while the kill ratio was admittedly depressing, with the ram stealing the attention of the Gondorians, my archers had a nearly free hand to work.

The gate was simple wood, if sturdy, with no plating or real metal support, and with the area completely swamped with orks, a sally seemed unlikely.

Not trusting the battle to continue further with me as a simple observer, I retreated to my base command and relied on scout reports for the rest.

The north had gone poorly for the defenders and attackers both. Wargs, incredibly agile as they were, had easily ran up the slope, steep for a hill, but pathetic for a wall, and completely overwhelmed the few defenders already there.

Then, a strong response from the defenders had come, sweeping up the scattered warg-riders – who had pursued fleeing victims independently of each other - pushing the attackers back to the wall, which the orkish archers still held tenuously.

It wasn't the little plot I'd imagined in my opponent's brain, but perhaps… the archers were still on the wall, after-all.

Was he waiting for my response?

Over-caution destroyed the general.

Boldness won the day.

But could it win the night?

I wondered.

"Quickly go and tell the archers to retreat, go out of bowshot from the wall, and support the gate assault. The wargs will remain out of bow-shot, threatening but not attacking, until I or Aemorniel gives the word."

The messenger first in line saluted and ran for his warg, followed a minute later by a second, and then a third in a few seconds who headed the other way first. He'd use a circuitous route and would hopefully be unnecessary, but I had the numbers to permit a little caution.

"Command the southern force to retreat from the wall slowly, spread out quickly, and assault the whole face on their side from the river to the gate."

I never did like using a plan I'd already thought of.

Somehow, if I was a wee bit rash and lost, I felt I still had an excuse.

A weakness, or a strength, time would tell.

As my orders reached their respective fronts, the night transformed. The view from the sky would have been a sight, I was sure.

The whole southern wall, alight with fire and blood, and the north, quiet like an owl waiting tensely for unwary prey.

And at the gate it was fiercest, as the wooden obstacle gave way to the beatings, its rough hinges unable to stand, its foundation too shallow for sufficient purchase. Even braced as it was from behind, the gate tilted backwards, until it looked more like a steeple roof than something that ought to be vertical.

Then, with a subtle snap, scarcely audible above the ferocious din of metal on metal, of metal on stone, of metal on bone, the main brace on the left side gave way, and the gate awkwardly twisted, still held up, but forced to swivel. It opened a way large enough for a single man, plenty enough for one, but no more than one.

Dead bodies that should have clogged the opening were instead dragged out of the way by orks, eager to breach the point.

All who tried, died.

"The Uruks are to attack the northern side, just above the gate. Some of them can come down to the gate if I manage to break through. I give you command, and don't forget to send the wargs in at the perfect moment." I turned to Aemorniel for acknowledgement.

"You're going yourself?"

"I must see this through."

I grabbed my mace and gripped my longswords' hilt, reminding myself it was still buckled on. On impulse, I also took my round shield, and headed off to the breach.

X-X-X-X-X

 **Author's Note** : So, it's been a while huh? You thought Akhorahil had bit the dust? Yeah, so sorry. But I regret nothing, I write for my own reasons, and not man's approval.

That said, your opinions, dare I say it, are welcome. What do you think about what I've done with the she-elf? Have I missed some important plot-point from canon for no good reason? Am I demonstrably silly?

And as ever, I do hope you enjoyed it,

-Iamwhononofyouare


End file.
